Pulp Crime

by Jerry eBooks

“Boston three months ago,” she said with a little shiver. “Albany last month. Our engagement is five days at the Palace. I want you to be back stage every performance. I will pay you a thousand dollars to see that no harm comes to Carlos.”

  Nice money, of course, but I was not particularly eager to earn it. A lot of show people are screwy. They’ll do anything for a few lines of publicity. I don’t like to get hooked up in any gag like that for any kind of money. I have my own reputation to think about now and then. I looked at her thoughtfully, and she was good at reading thoughts. Her voice had a catch in it.

  “Please, Mr. Jason, please! If it is not enough I will pay you more. But you simply must protect Carlos. Else I—I would die of anxiety. He does not even need to know. You wear no uniform. I can arrange so that you will appear as a reporter or something. It will only be from nine to nine thirty for five nights. Say you will, please?”

  I didn’t answer for a moment, I just looked at her, and maybe weakened a little. She certainly seemed scared, and so maybe it wasn’t a publicity gag. She was kind of cute, too. Cordova certainly must be good at other things besides handcuffs and trunk locks.

  “Have you any idea what might be back of this?” I finally asked, and thumbnailed the slip of paper again.

  She hesitated, frowned, and thought that over for a long minute.

  “I cannot say for certain,” she said to me presently. “Of course there are many who are insanely jealous of Carlos, but I don’t think they would do anything so foolish as that note threatens. It’s only that I don’t want to take chances.”

  She let the last slide with a shrug, and I had a sudden bright thought.

  “Is his divorced wife still living?” I asked.

  She looked at me popeyed, and then dismissed the question with a laugh.

  “He’s never been married before,” she said. “But I have been. I was divorced eight years ago. A year afterward I married Carlos. But for my former husband to threaten him is silly. I haven’t seen him, or heard from him since the day we parted in the divorce court.”

  “What was his name?”

  “George Parkins,” she said. “But his stage name was Professor Sparks. His act was magic with electricity. It was a very good act, too.”

  “Is he still doing the act?” I wanted to know.

  “Oh, no,” she said, and looked sad. “Something went wrong one performance. He was severely burned, almost killed. He retired from the stage. It was horrible, too, because it was right after we had agreed on the divorce. But why should George want to harm Carlos?”

  I had my own ideas on that, but I let them slide. I got to thinking that maybe this was going to be a very easy way to grab off a thousand smackers with no gags attached. I picked up a pencil, and pulled over my desk pad.

  “Give me a description of your former husband.”

  She furnished some details which were about as helpful to me as a blank sheet of paper.

  “That’s how he looked eight years ago,” she added. “And those terrible burns may have changed him. There were bandages over his face when I last saw him in court. But really, I think you can forget George. I believe it must be somebody on the same bill, but I have no idea which person. Here, here is all of it, now.”

  THE money she took from her purse and placed on my desk was in one hundred-dollar notes. There were ten of them, and fresh from the bank. They looked very wonderful considering my financial situation at the time. Perhaps that fact went a long ways toward deciding things for me. Anyway, I opened a drawer and dropped the money inside.

  “All right, Miss Duane,” I said. “I’ll protect him the best I can, but you haven’t given me very much to go on.”

  “Lack of information is what frightens me so much,” she said and shivered again. “If only I knew, or even suspected somebody, but I don’t. Oh, yes, here is my card. The stage doorman will let you through. My act is not on until ten o’clock so I will be waiting for you in my dressing room. Carlos has the one opposite mine. A little before nine, Mr. Jason?”

  “I’ll be there,” I said, and got to my feet.

  “Just one thing,” she said before she left. “Don’t say anything to Carlos. He would be furious, and it might disturb him in his act. He—he thinks sometimes he is—What is the word?”

  “Omnipotent?” I suggested.

  “Exactly!” she beamed at me. “You understand, eh?”

  “Perfectly,” I assured her, and bowed her out of the office.

  I gave her five minutes, and then I carried out Rule Number One in my business. I went right down to the bank and deposited the thousand bucks to my account. After that it was time for lunch. That job done with I started back to the office, but made a detour when I had a sudden thought. I dropped into the office of a friend of mine, Sid Foster, who had been connected with show business production and management since about the time he took his first step.

  A half hour with Sid and his files confirmed what the Diving Venus had told me. She had once been married to a George Parkins, who had appeared in a tricky electrical act that was pretty fair box office. She had been part of the act, too. The usual part in that kind of an act. She handed him things, and wore a little costume that just barely covered the law.

  One performance, after she had left the act, a couple of wires had got crossed. Parkins was almost electrocuted right in front of the horrified spectators. He lived, but he had never returned to the stage, at least, so far as Sid knew.

  A year later his former wife married Cordova and came out with the Diving Venus act of her own. They always played on the same bill, and nowadays they each got a star-marked dressing room. That’s all Sid knew, or would admit he knew. I left him with the feeling that he had left something out, but maybe I was crazy.

  Anyway, at quarter of nine that evening I showed her card to the stage doorman, and was given the green light. With the show underway half a hundred people were chasing about in all directions, and it was something like going through the Army line to get to her dressing room. I didn’t have to knock because she was waiting outside for me.

  She was wearing her act costume which was a less than less bathing suit with more silver and gold spangles than suit. The thin robe she had wound about her she might just as well have left home.

  A very, very appealing eyeful, but I didn’t have the chance to take my time. The kid was stiff with fear. She didn’t even acknowledge my greetings. She grabbed me by the hand and pulled me inside. In fact, she was so jangled up I had to wait a few seconds.

  “I’ve seen him!” she suddenly whispered at me. “This evening, when I came to the theatre! He was standing outside on the sidewalk. I’m sure of it!”

  She looked like she was going to come apart in small pieces, so I had to grab her by the shoulders and shake her a little.

  “Who did you see?” I snapped. “Who did you see? Get hold of yourself, Miss Duane!”

  She tried, and made it.

  “George!” she said in the same kind of whisper. “George Parkins, my former husband!”

  I DIDN’T say anything for a moment. I just looked at her.

  “You’re sure?” I pressed. “Absolutely sure? After all, it’s eight years, and you said he got burned badly.”

  “I know, I know!” she panted, and began twisting her fingers. “And he has changed. He doesn’t look at all like he used to. Those scars on his face! He looks evil!”

  “But how could you be sure?” I wanted to know.

  “The lobe of his ear,” she said with an effort, and touched her right ear. “He lost it in an accident when he was a child. That’s how I knew him tonight.”

  “A missing right ear lobe, and scars on his face?” I echoed. “Anything else?”

  “I didn’t notice exactly how he was dressed,” she said. “But I think he was wearing a gray topcoat and a gray hat.”

  “Did he speak to you?” I asked.

  “He started to, but I hurried into the theatre,” she said.

 
; I asked the last question with my hand on the doorknob.

  “Do you think he knew you recognized him?”

  “Certainly he did,” she replied instantly. “As I just told you, he started to speak to me!”

  I let go of the doorknob and fished for a cigarette. Then I saw a No Smoking sign, and gave it up.

  “Don’t worry, Miss Duane,” I said. “If he knows you spotted him, he’d be crazy to try anything.”

  “No, no!” she gasped, and put a hand to her throat. “He would! You do not know George Parkins like I do. Besides, I’ve paid you. You simply must protect Cordova.”

  I shrugged, then stepped quickly to one side. The door was flung open and Cordova came striding into the dressing room. He was snappily dressed in tails, and looked a good twenty years this side of his true age, unless you looked very closely, as I did. He didn’t see me because of the opened door.

  “Well, aren’t you going to witness my performance?” he boomed. “Cordova is performing the impossible tonight. You shall see!”

  Then he saw me out the corner of his eye. His face clouded up like a thunder storm.

  “So!” he boomed again. “Who is this person?”

  “Why, only a reporter, you silly boy!” she chided him. “Mr. Jason, of the Globe. He wanted an interview, and I—”

  The last was cut off by the bored but cutting voice in back of Cordova.

  “Curtain’s waiting, Cordova. Snap it up!”

  Cordova swung around to glare at the disappearing call-boy, then he swung back to me.

  “A reporter, eh?” he boomed. “Good! Cordova will show you something tonight. Come, pet!”

  The last was to her as he swung away. She lingered long enough to whisper one final beseeching plea.

  “You must not let anything happen, please!”

  I nodded, and followed her out. All lights had been dimmed but I was able to find a place in the wings where I could keep my eye on the stage. The orchestra banged away, the curtain slid up and a couple of spots focused on Cordova. The applause was really something, and you could see Cordova lapping it up like maple sirup. Then with soft music and lights he went into his act.

  Briefly, he was handcuffed, ankle cuffed, and tied up with twenty feet of rope or so. Then a couple of flunkies hoisted him up and down into a glass tank filled with water. He stood there a moment taking a last bow, and then let himself sink under water as the flunkies lowered the tank lid and locked it. Then the lights went out, and the orchestra played on for about two minutes. Standing there in the darkness I thought, and imagined all kinds of things, but I didn’t move. Then suddenly the lights flashed on, the orchestra played like crazy, and there beside the tank stood Cordova, dripping wet. The cuffs he held in one hand, and the twenty feet of rope was coiled neatly over his other arm. The paying customers raised the roof with their applause.

  THEY kept Cordova bowing beside the tank for all of five minutes. Then with a very smooth, contemptuous gesture he flung the cuffs and ropes from him and stalked off the stage.

  He went by me, and a couple of others, as though he were a god on his own. What Cordova thought about Cordova would certainly fill a book.

  It didn’t bother me any, though. All in a day’s work for Jason. I swung around and trailed him over to his dressing room. To keep earning my money I’d play the reporter and go right in with him, and stick until he left the theatre. Then the rest of the night would be mine.

  But, it didn’t work out like that!

  He was right in front of his door, me half a dozen steps behind, when suddenly all lights went out. I heard a couple of people yell way back stage, but before the yells were just echoes the lights came on again. One look toward Cordova, and my heart hit rock bottom. He was sprawled flat on a worn rush mat in front of his dressing room door. The fingers of his left hand were crooked as though he still held the doorknob, with the water from his soaked clothes making little puddles all around him.

  Even as I leaped to his side and dropped to my knees, I knew that Cordova was dead. Nevertheless, I tried the pulse, the heart, and even put my little pocket mirror to his mouth, but nothing doing. I yelled for somebody to get a doctor, and meantime examined him carefully. There was not a mark on him. I was trying artificial respiration when a doctor arrived and took over.

  He made a much more exhaustive examination than mine, but finally straightened up shaking his head sorrowfully.

  “Heart failure,” he said to nobody in particular. “His age, and the terrific strain under water in that tank, were too much for him this time.”

  “No, no! That is not true. He was murdered, I tell you! Cordova was murdered! Oh-h-h!”

  The shrill, hysterical words had come from the Duane woman. She had charged through the little pop-eyed group, and stopped beside her husband. I bent over and took her by the shoulders, and started to speak. She didn’t give me the chance for even one word. She whirled like a tigress with blood in her eyes.

  “You let him die!” she screamed at me. “You let him be murdered! I paid you a thousand dollars, too!”

  The rest choked up on her as she came at me with clawing fingernails. I managed to duck just in time. A couple of women in the show grabbed her, and led her sobbing and wailing into her dressing room. That left everybody looking with both eyes straight at me. I felt very foolish, and also sore as a boil.

  “Say, you’re Alec Jason, the private detective, aren’t you?” the doctor suddenly broke the silence. “What did she mean he was murdered?”

  I looked at him, and pointed at the corpse.

  “What do you think, Doctor?” I asked.

  He didn’t like that. It showed in his frown, and in the rest of his face.

  “It was his heart,” he said slowly.

  “I agree with you,” I said pleasantly. “Just the same, we’ll call the police.”

  And without waiting for anything more from him I walked over to a wall pay phone and made the call.

  Was I crazy? I didn’t think so. Murder is something you don’t fool with, if you’ve got any sense. And so I was more than willing to have the cops step into the picture. The only trouble was that they did with Lieutenant Hesse in charge of the detail. When I saw him come in through the stage door I almost wish I hadn’t made the call. Hesse and I were never exactly fond of each other, if you get what I mean.

  Of course, he had to spot me right away, and his eyebrows climbed right up his forehead. He came right for me, his mouth starting to open. I pointed at the corpse, and that detoured him. He took a good look, and then motioned for the Medical Examiner with him to do the same. Then he spoke to me.

  “How come you’re here, Alec Jason?” he snapped.

  “Been here all the time,” I said, holding my temper. “His wife, Diana Duane, hired me to protect him. He’d received a couple of threatening notes. She—”

  I STOPPED short as I saw the sneer start to curl Hesse’s lips. The devil with him! I jerked my head toward her dressing room door.

  “She’s in there,” I said. “She’ll tell you all about it.”

  The sneer had spread clear across his face.

  “Some protector!” he grunted, and turned toward her dressing room.

  I pretended not to hear the crack, ignored a lot of eyes that were still fastened on me, and watched the Medical Examiner do his stuff. He didn’t take much longer than the civilian doctor. And, when he nodded at the other medico I asked the question.

  “You say it’s heart failure, too?”

  He gave me a hard stare as though I was challenging him.

  “What else?” he snapped.

  I shrugged, and didn’t say a thing. For the present, that was good enough for me. I simply stood there staring down at the dead Cordova on the rush mat. Then suddenly something caught my eye. I didn’t move. I just looked and looked while the tingling ran up and down my spine. A moment or two later Lieutenant Hesse came plowing out of the Duane woman’s dressing room. There was a twisted grin on his face, a
nd a mounting gleam in his eye.

  “Well, Doc?” he said almost eagerly to the Police Surgeon.

  “His pumper couldn’t take it any more, Hesse. Heart failure. Make what you can of it. He’s all yours. I’ll give him a good going over downtown, but it was his pumper. Shucks, the stuff he did at his age!”

  Hesse’s grin faded, and the light died in his eyes. He looked sore, very sore. He nodded to a couple of his waiting men, and then turned to me. The sneer was hack.

  “Do some guys get the breaks!” he said. “The easiest thousand you’ve ever earned, Jason. And a break for that Parkins guy, too. I think I’ll pick him up, though, on those threat notes. The rat needs a lesson, scaring the pants off that poor kid in there.”

  It was all I could do not to laugh out loud in his face. Show Hesse a pretty face, and a nice pair of legs, and he’ll jump through hoops for you. Backwards.

  “Luck,” was all I said.

  He started a little, and narrowed his eyes: “Yeah, wise guy? Just what kind would you mean?”

  “Why, your kind, of course,” I said innocently. “Be seeing you, Lieutenant.” With that I walked away from him. I went over to a table and did something I did not like to do often. I took out my checkbook and wrote out one for nine hundred and ninety-five dollars, payable to Diana Duane. And then I just sat there, letting the ink dry, and watching our Police Department remove the evidences of tragedy. A little later I went over to her dressing room door, and on in through it without bothering to knock. She was alone, and dressed for the street. At my entrance she made a grab for her purse, but changed her mind.

  “Get out!” she blazed. “I never want to see you again. You are stupid! You all are stupid!”

  “So you heard what the police decided, too, eh?” I murmured. “Well, could be, Miss Duane. You still think your former husband did it somehow?”

  “Certainly!” she snapped, and looked like she was going to cry, she was so mad. “Heart failure, bah! My Carlos was strong, very strong. His heart would never fail him. It was George Parkins. I’ll tell the newspapers how stupid you and the police are!”

  “Your privilege,” I said with a shrug, and put the check on her make-up table. “Here’s the fee, less the cost of some phone calls I made. I couldn’t protect your husband that well, so I don’t consider I’ve earned the fee.”