Pulp Crime

by Jerry eBooks

  “I’m on my way. Thanks for the tip, Franklin.”

  He replaced the instrument, looked at Sue. She had pulled herself into a ball and was sleeping as soundly as a pup on a hot summer day. He pulled on his clothes, slipped the automatic into his coat pocket, saw that his revolver was on the night stand by the bed if Sue needed it.

  He tip-toed out, closed the door gently, and drove down the long slope to Lake Meadow, boiling under the wind. At the boat landing he found Chief Ranger Peters, his assistant, LeRoy, who handled his homicide work, and a couple of sergeants looking down at the soggy, distorted body of the late columnist. Wires extended from the corpse’s ankles.

  “What’s the deal?” he asked LeRoy, pointing.

  “Looks like somebody tossed him into the lake with weights on his ankles,” LeRoy replied. “The wind raised Ned with the lake—set up a lot of currents. The body dragged with them and pulled free of the weights.”

  He asked LeRoy, “When are you going to take the bullet out of his head?”

  “Right away.”

  Burney reached into his pocket, pulled out the automatic.

  “Check a shot from this against it, will you?” LeRoy looked at the weapon.

  “Where’d you get it?”

  Burney smiled crookedly. “I’ll give you the whole story if the bullets match,” he said. “If they don’t, we’ll skip it. I don’t want to get anybody in a jam before we know for sure.”

  He yawned and stretched. “I’m going home and get some shuteye. When you get the results on the ballistics check, call me.”

  “Sure.”

  Burney dragged himself to the pickup, got in, drove back up the long slope, through the city to his home. He went inside, found Sue still asleep and threw himself on the bed with his clothes on.

  CHAPTER V

  A Gun Is Traced

  BURNEY had no idea how long he had slept when the telephone woke him with insistent ringing. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and answered.

  “This is Chief Peters,” said a stern voice. “Get down here as quickly as you can and tell us about that gun.”

  “Then the bullets match.”

  “That’s right. You’ve got some fast talking to do.”

  “I’ll be right there, Chief,” Burney said, and rang off.

  Sue plied her husband with questions as he started for the door. “I’ll be back in a little while,” he told her. “Don’t worry.”

  He turned back and kissed her. “Get some more sleep,” he advised.

  He drove to the ranger station, went inside. Chief Peters motioned him into a room behind the short wave radio equipment.

  LeRoy was there. The gun was on a table. “Let’s have it, Burney!” snapped Peters. “First, whose gun is that?”

  “Greg Gallery’s,” Burney told him. “He’s at the hotel, registered under the name of Saylor.”

  Chief Peters nodded to LeRoy. LeRoy went to the door and spoke in low tones to a couple of lounging rangers. They went out.

  The chief called to his secretary, who came in with pencil and notebook.

  “Start at the beginning, Burney. I want the whole story. You’re holding back plenty on me, and I don’t like it.”

  Burney started with the finding of Hansel’s body and its disappearance. As he told it, his mind began to click. He talked faster and faster, impatient to get it over with. When he’d finished, Chief Peters looked at him coldly.

  “Can I go now?” Burney asked. He fished into one pocket after another, pulled out and unfolded a crumpled piece of paper. It was the note from George Ashton telling him to interview Coral Crane. He studied it, pocketed it.

  “I ought to lock you up as an accessory after the fact, until I see how your story checks with this Gallery’s,” the chief said. “You’ve suppressed enough evidence to send you up for twenty years.”

  “Okay—but can I go, please?”

  “Go ahead. But keep in touch with me. If we break Gallery, I’ll want you here pronto.”

  “Thanks, chief.”

  Burney barged out the door through the main office. As he left the building he saw the two rangers helping Gallery from the government car. He jumped into the pick-up, raced home. Sue was dressed, and was drinking a cup of coffee.

  “Want some?” she asked.

  “No time for that. We’re heading for Las Verdes,” he snapped.

  “What’s up?”

  “They’ve picked up Gallery for Hansel’s murder. They found Hansel’s body in the lake.”

  He told her about the ballistics test which he’d suggested, and how the bullets had matched. He told her how near he had been to going behind bars.

  “I could almost hear the door clank shut on me,” he said. “Come on—we’ve got work to do.”

  Sue untangled most of her hair with a comb, picked up her purse, dropped the .38 revolver into it, and said:

  “I’m ready. But I don’t see why you’re in such a rush. They’ve pinched Gallery.”

  “I’ve got to get to the Sentinel.”

  THEY went out and climbed into the truck. As it racketed along the choppy highway toward Las Verdes, Burney told her all the details. She weaved through traffic, shot the truck into the alley behind the office.

  “You wait here,” Burney told her as he got out. “I’m going in the front door this time.”

  “Why?”

  “I want to see Kramer, the publisher.”

  He left her, went to the front of the building, walked in. He knocked on Kramer’s door and was told to come in. He sat down in a chair as Kramer swiveled around.

  “What’s on your mind?” Kramer asked, impatiently. “The place is in an uproar and I’m about nuts.”

  “I understand,” Burney said, easily. “Tell me about Hansel.”

  “You can read all about him in the paper.”

  “I won’t find what I want to know. How long has he been on the sheet?”

  “Ten years. I tell you it’s in—”

  “How long on the column?”

  “Eight.”

  “How long did he have Skeeter Simms?”

  “All during the war. Ashton had the job first. Simms filled in for Ashton while he was in the service. When Ashton came back after four years in army public relations, during which he’d organized and published a couple of newspapers, we wanted to give him a better job. He worked for Hansel for a time while Simms did general assignments. When the news editor quit we gave him his job. Now, if you’ll get out of here—”

  Burney rose. “Thanks, Mr. Kramer. That’s all I wanted to know.”

  He went out to the truck, told Sue, “When I come out and get in the car I want you to drive directly to Gibson’s Pawn Shop.”

  She nodded. This time he went in the back way. He walked to Ashton’s desk. The moon-faced editor looked up, trouble in his face.

  “Hi, George!” Burney said. “I need your help. I want you to slip outside with me.” Ashton waved his hand above his littered desk.

  “You need my help—good grief! I’ve lost two of my best men, I’m trying to get out a newspaper short-staffed, the police are investigating, and you want me to leave—”

  “There’s an angle to the case I’ve got to clean up and I want you to come along with me—”

  Ashton stood up. “I’ve got to see Kramer. Sit down and bat out your story. We’ll get an extra—”

  “Wait a minute, George. Do you want to clean up this case? It’s only going to take us five minutes. We’re just going to see a man, that’s all. Then you’ll have the scoop of the century—”

  “Okay.” Ashton grabbed his hat. “But I don’t see why you need me.”

  “Sue’ll drive us.” Ashton went out the back door with Burney on his heels. Burney pushed him into the car beside Sue. Sue shifted into gear, drove to Second street, found a parking place in front of Gibson’s and tooled into it. Burney got out. “Come along, George,” he said.

  George Ashton looked at the sign on the window an
d stopped cold in his tracks. His face went white.

  “Say—where are you taking me?” he demanded.

  Burney’s eyes leveled on his. “I told you we were going to clean up this case,” he said. “We’ll see a man and—”

  “Who’s—this—man?”

  “Gibson—come on, George.”

  Ashton whirled.

  “You haven’t got me yet!” he exploded.

  As he spoke, his left hand shot into his coat pocket. Burney saw the glint of metal and waited for the gun to go off. But before he could aim there was an explosion from the truck. Ashton jarred backward at the shock of the bullet and grabbed his left shoulder. The gun clattered on the sidewalk. Burney picked it up, covered the editor. Sue was sitting at the wheel of the truck, the muzzle of the .38 giving off a wisp of smoke.

  Burney seized the editor and shoved him into the pick-up.

  “Headquarters!” he snapped at Sue.

  CHAPTER VI

  Desk Man

  CHIEF of Police Holman came from the inside room of Las Verdes headquarters. Following him were Chief Peters and LeRoy of the Rock City Rangers. Burney and Sue walked up to them. Chief Holman waved some papers. “We got a complete confession, Nick,” he said. “I still don’t know how you broke it. Want to read what he says?”

  Burney took the confession. “Let me see if I can tell the story before I look at it,” he said. “First of all, I wasn’t smart enough to realize that the statement signed by Farmer Jones telling of his marriage to Coral Crane and the fact he’d never got a divorce was slugged out on Ashton’s battered forty-two key typewriter. It wasn’t until this morning, after using the machine, that I got a hunch and pulled out that note Ashton had written me wanting me to interview Coral Crane, that I realized both the note and the statement had come out of it.

  “That got me thinking. It didn’t prove Ashton was guilty of the murders, but it showed that he was mixed up in blackmail.

  “I tied this up even tighter when Kramer gave me the murder motive. Before the war, Ashton worked with Hansel, getting a share of the extortion money. Ashton gathered the dirt and Hansel threatened to print it. The victim paid off under this threat.

  “Ashton went into the service—and Simms took his place as leg-man for Ashton.

  “When Ashton came back, he wanted in on the old racket. He probably used his G.I. seniority to move out Simms for a while—but Kramer made him editor. Simms moved back. Ashton, as editor, tried to get Hansel to kick in to him, and failed. I knew this when I learned first that Simms had dropped four grand at the Estrella Club right after the Coral Crane payoff of eight. Hansel took four, Simms took four, and Ashton was in the cold.

  “Ashton found out about the Coral Crane deal and went to Hansel demanding a cut. Hansel refused. They had it out. Ashton lost his temper, there was a fight and he killed Hansel. Ashton no doubt figured to take over Hansel’s end and keep on working the racket with Simms.

  “He had killed Hansel and was looking for the blackmail evidence when Sue and I came into the editorial rooms. He heard us and hid. I found it. He didn’t see me stick it in my pocket. Then he clipped me on the head. After that, while I was out for more than an hour and Sue was trying to find the watchman to get into the offices, he cleaned the blood off the pullout, locked the files, dumped Hansel’s body into his car, wired the building blocks to his victim and dumped the body in the lake.

  “He got back just after I’d regained consciousness, came in with the other fellows, and told me I’d dreamed the whole thing.

  “Simms, knowing what was going on, was pretty sure Ashton had bumped Hansel. He was getting ready to rat. A little honest blackmail was okay, but murder was out. He was going to spill over, and Ashton knew it. So Ashton played it smart. He reported his car stolen, then used it to trail Simms to the Estrella Club. When I came out of the club with Simms, he knew Simms either had talked or was getting ready to. He tried to kill us both.

  “In the meantime he had planted the murder gun at Gibson’s by hocking it. He built up terror in the mind of Coral Crane and then, when Gallery arrived, in his. When the pawn ticket arrived from ‘a friend,’ Gallery went and claimed it. If the body was recovered—and it was—Gallery would be accused.

  “That’s just what happened. But it can be proved now that Gallery claimed the gun after Hansel was killed, probably.”

  “How’d you tie the gun to Ashton?” Chief Holman asked.

  “I suspected Ashton of the murder after I tied him in with the blackmail. I knew if I could get him to Gibson’s, Gibson would be able to either identify him or not. Ashton knew Gibson would name him as the hocker of the gun, and that he couldn’t go into the place. He tried to kill me and make a break for it. I guess that’s all.”

  “You’re a hundred per cent right,” said Chief Holman.

  “That’s not all,” said Sue. “You’d be a dead pigeon now, Nick, if Ashton hadn’t been left-handed.”

  “Why?” asked Burney.

  “When he got into the pick-up and sat next to me I could feel that gun in his left hand pocket—and I even got a look at it. I didn’t know what you were up to, but I did know that Ashton wasn’t carrying that gat to shoot rabbits. So, when you got out of the car, I took my gun from my purse. I was ready when he stalled in front of Gibson’s.” The desk sergeant lifted a telephone, answered and held it out.

  “It’s for you, Burney,” he said.

  Burney took it.

  “This is Kramer,” he heard. “Have you got the full story?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then get over here and write it. And when you finish, take over the desk. The sheet is going to have a hard time living this down, and I need an honest editor who can really handle the job.”

  DON’T FOOL WITH MURDER

  Robert Sidney Bowen

  “Make your act perfect tonight, because it may be your last,” was the grim warning sent to the Great Cordova, handcuff king!

  WHEN I looked up from my desk I saw the back of a trick hat, several hundred dollars worth of fur coat, and an appealing pair of ankles. Then she finished closing my office door, turned around, and I saw her face. It was a nice face, somewhere between twenty-five and thirty.

  “Mr. Alec Jason?”

  I got up on my feet, nodded at her.

  “Won’t you be seated?” I said, and waved my hand. “Give me your name, please.”

  She didn’t answer until she had finished seating herself.

  I liked the way she did that, too, very casually, and relaxed. None of this crossed-legs witness chair stuff.

  “I am Diana Duane,” she told me.

  The way she said it indicated that I was expected to be both impressed and delighted. Frankly, her name didn’t strike a familiar chord, but in the private dick business it is money in the bank to play along with a prospective client, so I beamed a little, and nodded.

  “Oh, yes, of course, Miss Duane,” I said. “How do you do.”

  But she sensed I was bluffing. Her dark eyes showed hurt, and her lips formed a reproachful pout.

  “You have never seen me?” she demanded. “Diana Duane, the Diving Venus?”

  Her explanation made things click. I had never seen the Diving Venus in the flesh, but I had seen plenty of her pictures, and read about her sensational act. It was something truly box office. Fancy diving into a glass tank on the stage with just enough water in the glass tank to prevent certain suicide every time she tried it. There was something else connected with the glass tank act but I couldn’t remember it at the moment. I smiled apologetically.

  “Naturally, I’ve heard about you, Miss Duane,” I said. “But I don’t get to the theatre very often. You’re playing in town, now?”

  She nodded, and fumbled in her purse for something. When she brought it out I saw that it was a folded slip of paper. She handed it to me. I took it, and waited.

  “I want to hire your services, Mr. Jason,” she said. “That will explain.”

  I
UNFOLDED the slip of paper and looked at the writing. The words were printed in block letters the way an eight-year-old kid might do them. The printed words read:

  MAKE YOUR ACT PERFECT TO-

  NIGHT, BECAUSE IT MAY BE

  YOUR LAST!

  The note was unsigned. I looked at her and snapped the note with a thumbnail.

  “Any idea who might have sent you this?” I asked.

  “It was not sent to me,” she said. “Cordova found it under his dressing room door at the theatre, at the Palace, this morning.”

  That name was well known to me. Carlos Cordova had a reputation equal to that of the late Houdini. In fact, many claimed Cordova was even better than the late master magician. Which may be so, too. I had seen him several times, and the handcuffs, locked trunks, and so forth, he couldn’t get out of just didn’t exist.

  “Cordova?” I murmured. “What has he got to do with this?”

  “Three times in different cities Carlos has received one of those,” she said. “He just laughs, but I am afraid. So I have come to you. I want you to protect Carlos. I will pay you, of course.”

  “He might not like your doing that, Miss Duane,” I said with a frown. “After all, he should consult me personally.”

  “You do not understand,” she cut me off. “It is not known by many outside of the theatre, but Carlos Cordova is my husband.”

  That revelation was a bit of a shock to me. This cute little trick Cordova’s wife? Cordova was crowding sixty, if he was a day old. However, there’s no telling about women in love, I suppose.

  “Why didn’t he come here?” I asked.

  “I told you, he just laughs!” she said impatiently. “He says they are from some crank, some fool. Because he is Cordova he believes that nothing can harm him. But I am afraid. This is the third note, the third warning. I am afraid of threes. It has always been my unlucky number.”

  “The other two cities?” I asked.