Pulp Crime

by Jerry eBooks

  “You’re all through,” he said.

  Moran stood still, the grin pasted on his face, his mind frozen in the paralysis of panic. He tried to speak but no words came out, and the noise he made was like the grunt of an animal.

  There was the sound of a key in the front door and then Linton came in, gun in hand.

  He glanced at Pickerton. “You get it all?”

  “The works,” Pickerton nodded.

  Linton came to Moran’s side, deftly slipped the gun from his shoulder holster. “You’re under arrest for the murder of Dinny Nelson,” he said formally. “Anything you say may be used against you. As you know,” he added dryly.

  “Yeah, I know,” Moran said numbly. Linton’s words, the old familiar words, released him from paralysis.

  Cherry appeared in the bedroom doorway, stepped around Pickerton and entered the room. She picked up a cigarette and smiled. Her fingers moved to the mark on her cheek where he had struck her.

  Then she looked at Moran. “They wanted me to get you to talk,” she said. “I wasn’t going to, because I’m no informer. I might have warned you that Pickerton was hiding in the bedroom, but after you hit me, I had to pay you back.”

  “That was just one of the stupid things you did,” Pickerton said. He shook his head disgustedly. “What made you think you were smart enough to get away with murder? Your speed is the little stuff, Moran.”

  Moran wet his lips. “What did I do wrong?” he asked. He didn’t know what was happening to him but he felt weak and drained.

  Pickerton glanced at Linton. “You tell him,” he said.

  “We had nothing on you,” Linton said, “except your bad record, and the fact that Dinny’s money had been taken. But you acted from the start in a suspicious manner. During our first talk you were nervous, sweating. Later you came to the Diamond Club, but when you saw me with Cherry, you turned and got out. We saw you, of course.

  “Pickerton came here to Cherry’s apartment because we knew you’d come here. A smart man wouldn’t have. I took Cherry home, drove off. You immediately barged into the building and I came back and followed you up here.”

  He glanced at Cherry, then back at Moran. “You were too nervous to be subtle with her, or to go easy. You pushed her around and that did what we hadn’t been able to do, convinced her to help us. She played you like a sucker. You spilled everything to her, which is the thing only a fool would have done. Fortunately for us, Moran, you’re a fool.” His face became curious. “A cop should have known better. Didn’t you stop to think at all?”

  “I was thinking about the murder,” Moran said slowly. “It was on my mind. That left no room for any thinking about the smart thing to do.”

  Pickerton took his arm and started him toward the door.

  Linton walked over and shook hands with Cherry. “Thanks for the help,” he said. He hesitated, then smiled. “I’d like to see you some time when I’m off duty.”

  Cherry pulled the robe tight around her slim waist. “Any old time—just any old time.”

  Linton grinned. “I’ll call you.”

  He took Moran’s other arm and the three men went out the door. Moran walked like a dead man.

  DOOM ON SUNDAY

  B.J. BENSON

  Private Eye Mike Dobson Finds a Corpse in His Car!

  IT was two minutes past twelve Sunday morning and I was driving along the west side of Center City toward the downtown section. I happened to look at my gas gauge and I saw the needle flirting around the zero mark. I began to look for a gas station.

  About two hundred yards ahead I saw some neon tubing hazing up through the slight ground fog. When I got there I twisted my heap onto the concrete and pulled up before the high-test pump.

  The undersized attendant came out of the neat whitewashed station and moved under the flood lamps. He was wearing clean faded coveralls, brown army shoes, and a rag in his hip pocket. His hair was gray and thin. His face gray and thin and small. He was about sixty. He looked a little anxious.

  “Good evening,” I said, through my small hangover. I looked at my watch. I was still feeling pretty good. “I guess I should say, good morning. Either way, it’s nice weather for October.”

  “Yes sir,” he said. “You might as well fill her up. The high test.”

  He said “Yes sir” and he went around to the back of the car.

  I got out. “Men’s room?”

  He looked up from my gas spout and jerked his head and I went around to the side of the station to a spotless white room.

  When I got back he was putting the hose back on the pump.

  “Oil all right, sir?” he asked.

  I said yes and got in behind the wheel. He came around to the front windshield with a sprayer in his hand. He squirted liquid on the glass.

  “Weather’s fogging up,” he said, rubbing briskly. I said, yes, it was.

  He went around to the side windows. He stopped. I waited. I didn’t hear a sound.

  “Hey,” I called back. “Finished?”

  He came around to the driver’s side again. He looked sick. His face was a pasty green. He wet his lips and nodded his head quickly.

  “You all right?” I asked. He nodded his head again.

  “How much?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “I said how much do I owe you?”

  “I—I don’t know.”

  “Well, take a look at the meter and let me know.”

  He disappeared from the window. He was gone only a second.

  “Three seventy-five, sir.”

  I GAVE him four ones and told him to keep the change. He kept looking at me nervously.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked.

  “Nothing, sir. Nothing.”

  “I can’t help it,” I said. “It’s the face I was born with. They tell me I was a goodlooking guy once. That’s what makes me so sad.”

  I thumbed the starter button and geared the heap onto the highway again. Through the rear view mirror I saw him scuttle like a rabbit into the station. I saw him grab the phone. I scratched my head.

  I had driven along about two miles and had come up on the main downtown artery when I heard the scream of’ a siren directly behind me. A white police cruiser raced up alongside and squeezed me over to the curb. The two cops came out fast with their guns in their hands. I recognized one of them. I opened the door and got out.

  “Thanks for the reception, Muldoon,” I said. “What’s this—an honor escort to my apartment?”

  He peered through the darkness at me.

  “Oh. Mr. Dobson,” he said. “Didn’t recognize you.”

  He put his gun away and came up with a flashlight. The other cop still had his gun out. Muldoon came over to my car. He opened the door and flashed the light in back. He took a deep breath.

  “Take a look, Mr. Dobson,” he said.

  I squeezed my six foot height and my two hundred pounds past his big form and took a peek.

  There was a body on the back floor. It was the body of a man, and he was as dead as an old cigar stub. He was jack-knifed in there with his head pushed up against his knees. A black stain had spread over the back of his gray suit. Three or four holes had been punched in there and it didn’t take an expert to see that they had been made by bullets.

  I couldn’t see his face. I reached in to lift his head.

  “I wouldn’t do that, Mr. Dobson,” said Muldoon. “You have only a private license. I’ll call in.”

  He went back to the cruiser and spoke into the two-way telephone. A few late drivers came by, slowed curiously, and went on their way. I fished for a cigarette and put it into my dry mouth. I was cold sober. The other cop still had his eye on me. His gun was still in his hand, barrel down.

  Muldoon finished and came back.

  “You’d better get in with Stokes here,” he said to me. “I’ll drive your car back to Headquarters . . .”

  Lieutenant Gillis stretched. He crossed his thin legs again. He ran his finger
s through his sparse sandy hair. He got up. He had a sheet of paper in his hand. Through the frosted door of Homicide I could see an occasional shadow passing in the corridor. His tall stooped body leaned over the battered desk.

  “Name’s James R. Wescott,” he read. “Age fifty-three. Height five-feet-eleven. Weight one-eighty. Widower, no children. Next of kin, a nephew living in Hamilton.” He put the paper down. “The nephew is already here. I’ve spoken to him.”

  I looked at my wrist-watch. It was twenty minutes to two.

  “Fast work,” I said. “The victim sounds familiar, but I can’t place him off hand.”

  “He owned the Snow White Laundry. Good business. Twelve trucks. Sound more familiar?”

  “No.”

  “The assistant M.E. said Wescott hasn’t been dead more than an hour. Four bullets in him. One round lodged in the bone. They were thirty-two caliber. What did you find downstairs?”

  “We dusted the whole car. Nothing except my own prints and a couple of strange ones on the gas cap.”

  “The guy from the gas station. You still toting that thirty-eight S and W?”

  I reached into my shoulder holster and took it out.

  “No, no,” said Gillis. “I believe you. Just checking. By the way, where were you tonight? How do you think that body got in there?”

  “Search me,” I said. “I haven’t much of an alibi. I was over to the police commissioner’s house on Commonwealth Road. All evening.”

  “The commissioner’s, no less,” remarked Gillis.

  “Yes. The D.A. was there and the assistant D.A. And your boss, Captain Perlman, and Judge Talbot of the District Court and a few others.”

  “That’s what they’d call an unimpeachable alibi. What was it all about? You doing more private work for the city again? Working new angles for the City Finance Commission?”

  GRINNING a little, I shook my head. “No, nothing like that. As a matter of fact, it was a bachelor dinner for Sam Clements, the assistant D.A. He’s getting married next week. The commissioner spreads a nice table and serves good liquor. I left there about eleven forty-five. I pulled into the gas station a little after twelve.”

  “You didn’t stop on the way.”

  “No.”

  “How long were you in that men’s room?”

  “Five minutes, maybe less.”

  “The guy there could have had time to put the body in the car.”

  “Sure,” I said. “He’s a sawed-off little runt about sixty. He dragged this heavy body across the cement and packed him in the car. After I left he called the cops. Do you believe it?”

  “No. Meanix just called from there. No drag marks or blood around the place. The old man saw the body when he was cleaning your windows. He got scared. As soon as you left he called police emergency.”

  “They sure picked me up fast.”

  “When you came out of the commissioner’s house were you alone?”

  “No. We all came out together. The judge grabbed a ride with Sam Clements and the D.A. Perlman had his own car with him.”

  “Your car doors were unlocked?”

  “Yes. I got into the driver’s seat and drove off. I didn’t look in back.”

  He ran his fingers through his hair again.

  “Somebody had a lot of moxie,” he said, “planting the body in front of the police commissioner’s house. Have you got any ideas?”

  “No. And I want no part of it, Pete. It’s your corpse and it’s your funeral.”

  “It will be my funeral if I don’t crack this one fast. Imagine what the commish will have to say about a corpse on his doorstep.”

  I got up.

  “Good night, Pete,” I said. “What you need is a good hot cup of tea. You’ll feel much better afterwards.”

  “Very funny,” he said sadly. “Go ahead, Mike. Run out on me. Leave me holding the bag. Go ahead.”

  “Now don’t start that stuff again. You get paid for this. I don’t.”

  “Go on—go home,” he mourned. “You forget that you’re in this up to your neck. It was your car the body was in. For all I know, it may have been some loogan who did it, some pally of yours. Does it for a gag, maybe. Now you want no part of it.”

  “That’s what I call a sense of humor, calling that a gag. There are no loogans in Center City, remember? This is a clean metropolis. Or don’t you read the press hand-outs by the Center City Police Department?”

  “Now he’s getting sarcastic,” said Gillis, addressing the blank wall. “After all the favors I’ve done him. After all the business I’ve thrown his agency.”

  “Never mind the famous weeping act,” I said. “You know I don’t like people bloodying up my car and using it for a hearse. But I have no time to talk about it now.”

  “Just one favor, that’s all I’m asking. Talk to the guy. Wescott’s nephew. He’s waiting in the next room. Maybe you can pick up something I missed.”

  “All right, all right,” I said. “But that’s all. Look at all the sleep I’m missing. It’s no good for me.”

  He wasn’t paying attention to what I was saying. He had gone out in the middle of it. He came right back with somebody.

  Wescott’s nephew was a big red-faced boy of about twenty-seven. His mouth was pinched, and he looked mad. He was wearing a good suit of imported tweeds with hand-stitched lapels. There was a white silk shirt and a fancy tie. There were expensive brogues on his feet. He looked at me. I looked at him.

  “Why didn’t you tell me it was Mike Dobson,” he said to Gillis. He came over and grabbed my hand.

  “Hello, Fred,” I said. “It’s been a long time.”

  “Years,” he said. “And you not living far from. Well, I guess that’s the way it goes.”

  “You two know each other?” asked Gillis.

  “Same outfit overseas,” I said. “Divisional M.P.s. Haven’t seen each other since Forty-five. Too bad it had to be like this.” I turned back to Wescott. “Sorry as the devil, kid.”

  “It’s something I want cleaned quick, Mike,” said Wescott. “I don’t care what it costs or whom it hits. That’s final.”

  “I don’t blame you for feeling that way,” I said.

  “That’s the way I feel. Whatever you charge is okay. I want you to start right now.”

  “Wait a minute, Fred,” I said. “You’ve got me all wrong. This is a, police job. I haven’t handled a homicide in a long time.”

  I COULD see the muscles working in young Wescott’s face as his jaw hardened. Over to one side, Gillis hummed a tuneless tune and looked at the ceiling.

  “Don’t talk to me about the police,” Wescott said. “If they had any kind of a police force in Center City the thing never would have happened. It never would have happened in Hamilton. I hate to think I’d have to live in this city and depend on them for anything.”

  “Slow down,” I said. “Take it easy, Fred. You can’t blame the cops for what happened. If you’re going to blame something, blame it on our civilization. And don’t worry—you’ll get good action. Gillis, here, is a top man. F.B.I. Academy and all. And don’t compare Center City to Hamilton. Hamilton is a quiet little suburb. Center City is a big town. It takes all kinds of people to make a big town; some good, some bad. You leave it to Detective Lieutenant Gillis. He’ll make out all right.”

  “I’m leaving it to you, Mike. I know your reputation in this business.” Wescott took out a check book. “Name your price.”

  “Never mind that,” I said, waving the check book back to his breast pocket. “I know I shouldn’t, but I’ll take the case. I’ll take it because you’re all upset, and we can’t reason with you. I’ll send you a bill when it’s all over. Meanwhile there are a few things I want to know. For example, where were you tonight?”

  “Now wait a minute, Mike. You don’t think I did it!”

  “I don’t think anything. You might as well know that this is no time to get sensitive. This is murder. We can’t afford to be polite.”

  �
��Sorry. I was home with my wife all night. I suppose you want my fingerprints now.”

  “No. If I know Gillis he’s already wired Washington for them. Are you sole survivor to your uncle?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then it’s now your laundry.”

  “Yes. I suppose so.”

  “I want your permission to go over the records there.”

  “You can have it.”

  “Good. Go ahead home, unless Lieutenant Gillis still wants you.”

  “No,” said Gillis. “I’ll get in touch with him.”

  Wescott shook hands with me and started for the door.

  “Thanks, Mike,” he said. “If I know you, you won’t have much trouble with this.”

  “That’s what you think. I always have trouble.”

  He opened the door and went out.

  “I’m going,” I said to Gillis.

  “See you at seven in the morning?” He grinned.

  “Nine. I need my beauty sleep. And take that silly grin off your face.”

  I left the Homicide Bureau, went down to the police garage, pulled my car out, and headed up the ramp. I moved out into the street, then nosed over to the south side.

  Cutting over to Ogden Street to avoid the lights I came to the manufacturing and warehouse district. I drove along slowly in the empty streets. On Church Street I turned left and saw what I was looking for. The lighted sign said “Snow White Laundry.” I pulled up in front of it and got out of the car.

  It was housed in two small red brick buildings behind a chain link fence. The street was deserted. I looked at my watch. Twenty minutes past two. The dim street lights cast a halo in the drifting fog. I went over and rang the bell on the gate. Looking across the cobblestone courtyard I could see a light in the office. I looked at the little sign under the bell again. It read:

  RING FOR THE NIGHT WATCHMAN

  I rang again. I waited. I looked around. Parked down the street, fifty yards away, was a new model Chevrolet sedan with the lights out. It was too far for me to see the license plate. I tried the gate. It was unlocked. I opened it and went in.

  My shoes clattered on the cobblestones as I crossed the courtyard and went up to the door marked “office.” It was slightly ajar. I went in.