by Jerry eBooks
The gray sides of the boat loomed over him. He kneeled behind a crate and squinted at the porthole ablaze with light.
He was about to move forward again when he heard a step behind him. He turned quickly, but the shape was upon him. A flash of red enveloped his head and he fell down, down, down . . .
HIS face was against the planking when he again became conscious of the lapping waves. The rumble of the crane’s motor was now gone. There was just the periodic boom of a foghorn out in the blackness of the bay behind him.
The pain throbbed through his head. That was a good sign. He could feel the pain. He also knew where he was. That was also good. He put a hand to his head. It came away sticky. Slowly, one hand gripping the crate, he pulled himself to his feet. The portholes were now buried in blackness. He took an unsteady step away from the crate. His foot kicked at his hat. Quickly he felt at his pocket. The gun was still there.
He stood there for a moment, trying to regain his strength. Then, picking up the hat, he headed for the path leading to the house.
Beneath the feeble yellow light of a lamppost he glanced at his wrist watch. Eight-thirty! That meant he was out about thirty minutes.
He swung up the street and headed toward Tulia’s Bar and Grill.
It was a small cellar dump and the juke box was still playing loud.
The fat, bald-headed man behind the bar watched him come in. The single figure standing at the bar also turned.
A pretty dirty-looking bum, Taylor thought to himself as he walked toward the booth at the rear. They’re thinking that I’m another bum that just rolled in out of the bay. Again the quick smile flicked across his lips. Maybe that’s the way they thought about Dave. A knocked-out bum with a limp that made him no good for anything.
Elise had a good start on him. She ground out the cigarette as he slid onto the chair opposite her. Her lips still looked as if they wanted kissing, thought Taylor.
“You crawl here over the gutter?” she asked, her small right hand curling around the glass.
“Tripped on a match.” He watched her face.
“You’re so funny,” she said. She called across the room. “Tulio, bring us drinks. This guy is so funny we need drinks.”
Taylor had his eyes up at the mirror that hung on the bare wall in front of him. He saw the figure at the bar lean forward, mutter something. Tulio nodded and the figure turned and went out through the front door.
“WHAT do you drink?” Elise asked. She pushed the collar of her coat back, stroked at her neck with her manicured fingers.
“Whatever you drink.”
“Tulio!” she called out again. She leaned back against the chair. She was wearing a low-cut dress beneath the thin coat. “Bring us Martinis. This guy is a bigtime operator!”
“Dave has good taste.”
Her eyes flashed. “Had! I told you it was had” She was going to say more but she checked herself. She took another cigarette from an open pack. “Tell me about Mike, Taylor,” she said in a silken voice. “My mother said you knew him in the army.”
“Yeah. We were always together. He would always tell me about how anxious he was to get back home, back to this street, to Dave. And he told me about you.”
She cocked her head and smiled. “What did he tell about me?”
“He told me about how much Dave was in love with you.”
She let the smoke drift out slowly. “Taylor,” she finally said, “you’re a sweet guy. I’ll tell you something so that you don’t feel too bad about what happens to Dave. That crippled guy hated his brother’s guts!”
Taylor nodded thoughtfully. “I didn’t know that.”
Her mouth opened in a quick nervous laugh. “He was jealous. That’s what! Jealous ‘cause Mike was a big guy and got into the Army and he had to stay on this crumby street and live in an old broken-down joint.”
Tulio wobbled over the sawdust-covered floor and breathed heavily as he placed the glasses on the table.
“Tulio—” the girl laughed—“I want you to meet Mr. Taylor. He knew Mike.”
Taylor raised his face slowly, stared up at the red bundle of chins.
The bartender stared back, running his tongue over his broken teeth as he nodded. He turned and headed toward the juke box, gave it a kick and the blues song started playing.
Taylor had his eyes back on the mirror when the front door opened again. A thin, stooped man stepped in and looked toward the bar. Tulio’s passivity disappeared. He swung quickly with his short arms and the bent man stood hesitating next to the door.
“So many panhandlers around here,” said the blonde when the door had slammed shut again. She picked up her drink and that same look came into her eyes. “To you, Taylor.”
He picked up the drink. “No. To Dave.”
Her lips tightened. “Yeah, sure,” she said slowly. “Why not?”
He sipped at the drink. She watched him closely. He took more of the drink into his mouth.
TULIO bounded out from behind the bar as soon as Taylor’s body slumped limply over the table. His many chins wobbled as he came quickly to the booth.
“You put in enough to knock out a horse,” said the blonde, taking hold of the sprawled legs.
“Two horses, Elise. Quick. We’ll take him into the back room.”
They dragged him across the floor toward the single door at the rear.
“Where’s Joe?” the blonde asked after they had dropped Taylor in a corner.
“He’ll come in the back way.” Tulio breathed heavily as he swung a thick foot at the crumpled figure. “Lousy flatfoot don’t look so tough now, does he?”
“He can’t feel nothing,” the blonde said coldly. “You better take away his rod.”
The bartender’s hands went quickly over the fallen man. “He ain’t got any, Elise.”
“He must have dropped it when Joe smacked him down by the pier. How long will he be like this?”
“More than two hours.” A low laugh rumbled up from his belly. “And in two hours’ he’ll never wake up.”
A fist slammed against the back door. The girl quickly snapped open the lock. The tall blond youth stepped slowly into the room. “He fell for it, huh?” he asked, turning to his sister.
“That’s my talent, isn’t it, Joe?” said the blonde, glancing down at the sprawled figure.
“You got the stuff, Joe,” asked Tulio, moving forward and rubbing his flabby palms against his apron.
The tall youth reached into his pocket, handed the bartender a small package. “I would have gotten it the first time if that guy hadn’t barged around.” He glared down at the prostrate figure of Taylor. “And I would have finished him off there, too, but someone began coming down the gangplank.”
“Keller came in before,” said Tulio. He grabbed up the small package. “He wanted some stuff. I got him out before copper-boy knew what was going on.”
“You two better go to the front now. See that no one comes in.”
The blonde hesitated.
Joe prodded her, taking out a .38. “Go on, kid. You know the way I gave it to Homer. He never felt it. Right between the eyes.”
They stood outside until they heard the shot. Tulio sighed and patted at his belly. The blonde winced and swallowed hard. Then they both pushed their way into the room.
A .22 Colt automatic made them freeze in their tracks.
Pete Taylor stepped over the figure of the dead youth. “All right, neighbors. Turn around and start walking.”
THE foghorns had ceased blowing when Detective Sergeant Grady drove his police car down the long narrow street. The first streaks of dawn were now coming across the bay.
“Taylor, are you sure you can trust her?” asked Detective Grady, parking in front of the last house on the street.
“Yeah. I think she always really liked me a lot. And after all she’s lived always in a world of her own. Probably never knew anything about her son and daughter smuggling dope into the country and about Tulio peddling i
t.”
He rubbed at his strangely impassive jaw. “And please, Grady, don’t call me Taylor. That’s what they called me after that bomb blew away my memory and a good part of my face. They were able to give me a new face. But my old name is good enough for me.”
“OK, Mike,” the detective said softly. “But one thing, what first gave you the idea that your brother was shielding this dame, Elise, thinking that she was the one who killed the Homer guy.”
Mike pushed open the door. His long legs reached out to the curb. “That story she gave me about Homer making a play for her. There were only two things wrong with Homer. One was he went too much for the happy powder and the other was that he just liked to gab too much.”
“And what about that doped Martini?”
“Just a hunch. After Joe tried to knock me off on the pier, I figured that maybe they’d begun to get ideas about me. I slipped my gun in the side of my shoe. I guess Elise was too scared to look closely at it when she had hold of my feet.” He stepped out of the car. “Tulio never did know how to make Martinis. I figured it was hopped up so I didn’t swallow any of it.”
Mike watched the police car drive off. Then he turned toward the house. It was pretty bad. But with rooms as scarce as snowballs in hell at least it was something for his brother Dave to come home to.
HOMEMADE MURDER
Rodney Worth
The ballistics boys were helpless when they found the slaying bullet matched no known caliber. And it was left to Detective Logan to trigger the killer who rolled his own.
THE street was quiet, dark, and almost deserted. Jack Arnold walked quickly, keeping his face straight ahead, but glancing up at the top floor of the three-story building across the street out of the corner of his eye. In one of the center windows a man could be seen sitting, facing the window with a newspaper in his hands, his body outlined by the lights of the room. Arnold’s eyes were cold and hard as they furtively studied the man in the window.
It was almost twenty years since he had last seen the man, but he still remembered him. His name was Charles Marlowe, otherwise known as Lefty. Arnold’s name had been Jack Fort.
Yes, that had been a good many years ago. But he had still recognized Lefty when he suddenly showed up two months ago. Lefty hadn’t known him, but that was just as well. This way he would get Lefty for old time’s sake, and not even Lefty would know he had done it.
He reached the next block and went into the small diner on the corner.
“Good evening, Mr. Arnold,” the kid behind the counter said.
“Hi ya, Tommy,” he replied. They called him Mr. Arnold now, because nobody knew about the past. And it was going to stay that way. He was going to get Lefty, but nobody would get him.
As he ate his dinner, Arnold reviewed the past few weeks, remembering the day he first got the idea of how he could get Lefty. It was a slick little plan. All he had to do now was follow it through.
As he finished the last of his coffee, a large garbage truck rumbled up the block and stopped in front of the diner. Men climbed off the cab and picked up the barrels sitting on the curb, emptying them in the rear of the truck. The motor turned over noisily and the garbage was carted deeper into the truck by a chain belt.
Arnold glanced at his watch, then smiled to himself. “Those guys are always right on time,” he chuckled.
He paid his check and went out. For a minute he halted and looked up the block to the still-lit window, firing a cigarette as he did so. He was all set now. Lefty’s days were numbered. He turned to his right and walked down the street.
LOGAN scrutinized the slug Haley handed him, a worried frown on the brow beneath his red thatch of hair. “What do you make of it?” he asked the police ballistician.
Haley looked up and smiled wryly. “I’m kind of sorry you brought that damned thing in. I won’t sleep for a week wondering about it. If somebody told me about it, I’d say they were nuts. I’ve seen just about every piece of lead a gun can throw, but that thing has got me stumped. Of course, going through a guy’s head and a couple of walls sort of mashed it up a bit, but it must have been originally less than a .30, yet more, a lot more, than a .25. And, from what it went through before stopping, I’d swear it was a rifle that did the job.”
Logan rolled the battered slug around in the palm of his hand, his left hand brushing through the mop of red hair. His stocky partner, Monk, noticed the gesture. It could only mean one thing—Logan was stumped too.
The detective looked up from the slug in his hand to Haley. “Well,” he asked, “you must have some idea. What kind of rifle?”
Haley sighed. “Like I said, it must have been a rifle, ‘cause no pistol could have driven even a small bullet like that fast enough to plow through somebody’s noggin and a couple of walls to boot. There are some hunting rifles on the market using a powerful charge inside a big shell. The shell is ‘necked-down’ to take a small bullet. Go down to the sports store and take a look at a .257 Roberts or a .220 Swift if you want to know what I’m talking about. But I’d say that slug was bigger than a .257 or a .270 Winchester.”
He took the slug from Logan and studied it again under a magnifying glass. “I’ll tell you one thing,” he said, “produce the gun that shot this bullet and I’ll prove to any jury it’s the murder weapon.”
Logan said, “That’s a big help. But thanks anyway. Do you mind if I keep the slug for a while?”
Haley handed the slug back. “It’s okay by me. But don’t lose it. I want it for my collection.”
Logan went out of the laboratory building. Monk trailed behind him, calmly chewing an apple.
“Flare trough?” he asked Logan.
“Listen, either get your mouth empty or shut up,” he snapped. “How many times do I have to tell you not to talk when you’re eating?”
Monk hastily swallowed a piece of apple. “I was only asking where we’re goin’ now,” he said reproachfully.
Logan couldn’t help grinning at the sulking gloom his quick retort had brought to his sidekick’s face. “Okay, but remember the next time to empty your kisser.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s twelve-thirty on the nose. You’re going back to the scene of the crime. See if you find out anything more from that landlady. Ask her exactly what time this morning she found this Marlowe guy with the hole in the head. And ask the coroner, if he’s still around, exactly what time the stiff got it. I’ve got a date with a hunch.”
Obediently Monk climbed into the police car at the curb and sped up the block. After watching him turn the corner, Logan walked the other way into the business section of town. As he walked, he kept running his left hand through his red hair.
AN HOUR later that afternoon he stepped out of a taxi in front of cheap rooming house. A cop leaned against the front door, a bored look on his face. On the sidewalk a group of neighbors stood looking at a window in the fourth floor. Logan nodded to the cop and went inside. Up on the top floor he found more people clustered around a closed door, discussing, among other things, the very big hole in the wall above the doorframe. Some were looking at an identical hole sloping into the hallway ceiling.
Logan walked into the room quickly and closed the door firmly behind him. Inside he found another cop talking to the landlady, who might have been Miss America of 1897. Monk was hard at work on his second apple of the day. A sheet-covered object lay next to a chair by the window.
Monk opened his mouth to say something, remembered the apple, and shut it again. The landlady came over to Logan. “Oh, Lieutenant, I wish you would find the murderer and take the”—she didn’t say what, but pointed at the corpse on the floor without looking at it—“out of my house.”
Logan replied, “Lady, your guess is as good as mine about the killer. But we’ll have the body out of here in a couple of minutes. I’d like to ask you a couple questions, then you can go. Exactly what time did you find Mr. Marlowe this morning?”
The landlady pointed to Monk and said, “This gentleman asked me the s
ame thing. Like I told him, I didn’t hear Mr. Marlowe go out this morning at eight like he usually does. I got worried around eight-thirty, thought he might be sick or somethin’. Then the mailman told me he noticed his light was still on in his room. I came up and knocked, but he didn’t answer. So I opened the door and—and there he was.”
“All right,” Logan replied in his most comforting tone, “just two more. You say the window was open when you came in, and the bed hadn’t been slept in.”
“Oh, yes, sir. About the window, I mean. Mr. Marlowe always sat there in the evening reading his paper with the window open. I’m positive about the bed. Carol, she’s the girl I have helping me, made it up yesterday while he was out to work. And it was just like she left it this morning.”
Logan smiled at the landlady. “Thank you very much, ma’am. You’ve been of great help to us. And now the policeman here will take you out.”
He motioned to the cop who opened the door for the landlady. She went out into the babble of the people standing in the hallway.
Logan went over to the body and drew the sheet away. The head had a very clear and sharp hole running from one side to the other.
“The doc says he got it around eight, maybe a little before,” Monk said. “The old dame must be right.”
“Yeah,” Logan replied, turning to look at the hole above the door where the bullet had left the room. “Only how come nobody noticed the holes until after he found the body?”
“She says Marlowe was the only tenant on this floor. Nobody ever came up here to the top of the building except to clean his place. Monk paused to finish his apple. He leaned out the window and dropped the core on the cop leaning against the front door.
“Ha! That’ll teach you to call me a gumshoe,” he laughed to himself. Logan shook his head at the wacky partner. “Okay, comedian, climb into the chair.”
Monk walked over to the chair and sat down, being careful not to step on the corpse. Logan took a long pencil from his pocket and held it lengthwise against the back of Monk’s head. He pushed Monk’s head slightly until the pencil was lined up with the hole over the door. He tilted it until it followed approximately the angle of the bullet, glancing down at the hole in the corpse’s head.