Pulp Crime

by Jerry eBooks

  “Good description. But we ought to have everything you can remember before we put it on the air. The better description, the quicker he’ll be picked up.” Grady said that quickly. “You remember anything else? His walk—way he talked—anything?”

  “Well, he walked with a sort of a limp. Not exactly a limp, but more of a hitch to his shoulders.” Batson frowned thoughtfully. “His voice was very hoarse. I think that’s about all.”

  “How about his feet, his shoes?” Grady asked that very quickly.

  “Oh, yes. His shoes were odd. I remember them because they were so narrow and pointed. They were brown and very brightly polished. His socks didn’t show, so I don’t know about them. I’m sorry I can’t remember anything else. I’d like to do all I can to help catch the man who killed my friend. I—” Batson’s voice broke.

  “That’s all right. You did what you could.” Grady patted Batson’s shoulder with a broad hand. “The man didn’t come around to this side of the counter through the gate?” Grady’s eyes flicked to the swinging gate in the counter near the door.

  “No.” Batson was very positive. “He came right to me, stuck the gun in my face, as I told you.” Batson smiled a little.

  “If he came in later, which he must have done, I didn’t know anything about it.” He touched the bump on his forehead and frowned.

  “Sure. That’s right.” Grady laughed a little, softly. “Now, I want us to reenact this thing. Maybe that’ll make you think of something else we can use to get this fellow. All right?”

  “Certainly. I am glad to do anything I can to help catch the man who killed my friend.” Batson got to his feet, swaying a little.

  “We’ll go through everything but him hitting you on the head.” Grady went out through the swinging gate and turned to face Batson at the door. “I’m the man, now. Get where you were when he came in.”

  Batson moved to the opened ledgers on the top of the solid, breast-high counter about eight feet from the door. Grady came along the outside of the counter, moving toward him.

  “Say what you said then,” the detective told him.

  “Well—I said ‘What can I do for you, sir?’ ” Batson finished at about the same instant Grady reached him.

  “This is a stick-up!” Grady said that sharply, and Batson found himself looking into the black barrel of a Police positive revolver. He could smell the sweetish odor of oil on the gun. “Go ahead, do what you did.”

  “Well, I caught the gun.” Batson raised his hands and caught the barrel of the revolver, pulled it a little. “I pulled it like that, then the man struck me and after that I—”

  BATSON’S voice stopped abruptly as Grady’s left hand came up and caught his right wrist. The detective’s fingers were like steel. His blue eyes were icy and hard.

  “Now, tell me where you hid the ten grand from the safe, Batson!” he said harshly.

  Mark Rutledge’s suddenly exploded breath finished wrecking the cigar and tobacco bits sprayed the office floor. One of the detectives grunted in surprise and all three of them turned to stare.

  “I—I don’t understand what you mean.” Batson’s voice was shrill and jerky, his eyes wide.

  “Sure you do.” Grady laughed jarringly. “You’ve probably been planning this for weeks, maybe months or years. The nickled revolver was picked up somewhere out of town, maybe. We’ll trace it to you in time. You waited until there was enough money in the safe to make it worth murder.”

  “Largest amount in the safe last night in years.” Mark Rutledge stared incredulously at Batson.

  “No!” Batson shrilled. “There was a man who did it!”

  “The man exists only in your imagination. He was created to give the Police something to hunt for, and to keep you in the clear. You planned to work here a few months, then quit, taking the money with you. It is hidden somewhere in the office or washroom, where you could pick it up within a few minutes. You were smart, Batson, but—What kind of shoes am I wearing?” Grady shot the question abruptly.

  “Why, they—”

  George Batson glanced down, and breath caught in his throat, choked him. The broad top of the solid counter concealed Detective Grady from the chest down. No one on this side of the counter could see the feet of a person standing on the other side. He could not see Detective Grady’s shoes.

  A whimpering sound came from Batson’s lips, and terror filled his mind as he thought of the ten thousand dollars hidden behind the medicine cabinet in the washroom. Four screws held the cabinet. It would have been the work of but a few moments to get the money.

  “Answer my question!” Grady’s voice was as cold and hard as his eyes.

  Frantically, Batson tried to pull away, but Grady held him despite his struggles.

  “You can’t see my shoes, Batson. You couldn’t have seen the robber’s shoes, if there had been a robber.” Grady’s words struck with the force of bullets. “You stand in the killer’s shoes, Batson, and will until you come to the end of the last mile. Take him, boys, then we’ll find the money. Maybe it’s behind the medicine cabinet in the washroom.”

  George Batson screamed shrilly as hard hands gripped his arms.

  A SLAY RIDE FOR SANTA

  Carl Memling

  Outside it was snowing. The snow fell steadily, shadowing the city streets with white. Suddenly everything looked soft and clean, and the city smelled sweet. People out walking smiled greetings to total strangers; children bellywhopped down inclines on their sleds. It was heart-warming—the first snow of the season had come at the perfect time—and everyone felt happy.

  Inside, nothing had changed. Well . . . if you looked hard, you could find a small dusty wreath in the window of the warden’s office. But the cells and the long gray corridor remained dark and moodily silent, and if the prisoners in the city jail saw the snow through barred windows, they made no comment.

  The snow fell in the prison yard, blanketing the gravel, and all it meant was no exercise that day, because overshoes weren’t part of the prisoners’ equipment. Men tossed and grumbled on their narrow bunks.

  “Merry Christmas,” one muttered sardonically.

  “Shut up,” his cell mate growled. But there was something else in the warden’s office that betokened the season.

  On his desk, surrounded by a mess of papers, stood an open bottle of Scotch.

  The warden was an easygoing man, and this was the way he remembered the guards every Christmas. The old-timers didn’t even have to be told; they knew they had a nip coming to them while changing shifts. It was medium-priced Scotch, tepid and astringent as it touched the lips, glowing with warmth as it whirled in the stomach. The bottle was less than half full now.

  Such a small thing—a glass cylinder, eight inches long, with a thin neck above and some golden liquid sloshing around inside. Such a small thing—to start a chain of deaths . . .

  Myerson shouldn’t have had any; Myerson was a lush. With him, one drink led to another, and soon floors and walls turned to rubber and began to tip and slant.

  If the warden hadn’t been home helping his wife decorate the tree, he might have held him down to one drink. He certainly would have said, “This is for when you come off, Myerson-not for when you’re going on.”

  But Myerson was alone in the office. A short bleary-eyed man with six hours of guard duty ahead, six long, slow-inching hours . . .

  The bottle remained upturned for a long moment and there were gurgling sounds; then Myerson smacked his lips and dragged the back of his hand across his face.

  The bottle arced up again.

  Minutes later, the guard he was relieving, asked him worriedly, “You all right, Mike?”

  Myerson pawed the air for emphasis. “Sure I’m all right,” he said. He lunged down into a chair and grinned vacantly and held his head rigid to show how steady he was.

  The other guard shrugged and handed him the keys and walked away.

  Myerson leaned back in his chair, yawning extravagantly. Then he s
cratched his red, wrinkled neck. The Scotch kept stoking warmth deep inside him.

  “Merry Christmas,” he called out to the row of cells. “Happy New Year!”

  No one answered. He could hear men turning in their bunks. It was dusk outside now, and despite the close-spaced bulbs, the long corridor was swathed in shadows. Myerson sighed and let his eyelids drop; he slouched down in the chair and began breathing regularly . . .

  “Guard!”

  Snorting, Myerson shook his head and rapidly blinked his eyes. Then he saw by his watch that twenty minutes had passed.

  “Guard!”

  The voice came again, hoarse and rasping, from the last cell on the left. Myerson leaned forward. Benson, he thought tiredly. That’s who’s calling. The lifer waiting to go up to the state pen. A tough egg. Mean . . . Myerson swore softly and staggered up from his chair. What’s the bum mean by breaking up such a nice warm snooze?

  The walk down the corridor seemed to take a long time. At last Myerson stopped and leaned, exhausted, against the bars of the cell door.

  “Yes?” he asked sharply. “What d’you want?”

  Those were the last words Myerson ever spoke.

  Stubby fingers snaked out through the bars and encircled his throat, the thumbs squeezing in front. Myerson’s body weaved and his arms flailed, violently at first, then slower and slower, and spluttering noises frothed from his twisting mouth.

  Slowly his face flushed blue and his eyes bulged.

  The keys fell from his hands, clattering onto the grey stone floor.

  Benson kept squeezing till he was certain there was no life left in the guard. Then he relaxed his grip, pushed, and watched Myerson’s body spin backwards, slump, and thud.

  Benson leaned forward, groped, picked up the keys, fiddled with them, inserted one into the lock of his cell door, twisted, and stepped out into the corridor.

  The corridor was completely silent. The other prisoners were small-larceny offenders, timid, all waiting for early release. They had heard the series of sounds that had spelled Myerson’s death—his shuffling towards the cell, his question, the first quick squeal, the wheezing afterwards, the clattering of the keys, and the final thud of his body—and those sounds had driven so much fear into their hearts that now they all cowered back in their cells, afraid even to breathe; and they averted their eyes as Benson strode by on his way to the snow-white city outside.

  It was cold in the streets. The wind leaked through his thin gray uniform. He breathed hard, pulling the air in through his mouth till it swelled, cold and stinging, inside his chest. His eyes gleamed and he kept muttering over and over to himself, I got out. They tried to give me life, but I got out.

  The snow crunched under his heels and he swerved every time he passed under a street lamp, quickly throwing his forearm up to shield his face.

  I need time. A place where I can stop and think. I got to keep out of sight. I got to get out of this uniform. I got to contact the boys in New York.

  Suddenly he frowned. Coming down the street, still more than a hundred yards away, was a group of carol singers, laughing boys and girls. He broke into a half-run, reached the corner before they could see him, and turned in.

  The new street was dark and deserted. The windows of squat factories shone gray in the faint reflected light of the snow; and in the distance neon signs of bars glowed alternately red and green.

  He was panting now, his heart was hammering heavily against his chest. The songs of the carolers twisted after him, carried on gusts of wind, prodding him on. Then he saw the black-mouthed opening of a narrow alley, and he plunged into it.

  Inside the alley the shadows were so thick that he held his hands before his eyes, feeling he had to brush them aside. Panting, he leaned against a side wall. Sweat pimpled his forehead, then evaporated, leaving stinging dots of cold.

  He swayed wearily, and at first all he could think of was the taste of a cigarette in his mouth, how the smoke would hiss out through his nostrils. Then he thought of the damn fool lush of a guard who had called out, “Merry Christmas,” to the silent cell block . . . and his hands curled reminiscently. They tried to put me away for life!

  He was thinking of a cigarette, again, what he’d give for one quick drag, when he heard a faint moan. He swiveled around, peered into the darkness, and gasped at what he saw.

  At first he thought it was a man, dead, and stained from head to foot with blood, then he saw it was only a drunk wearing a Santa Claus outfit.

  The drunk was sleeping next to an empty bottle of whisky, and the wind was tugging playfully at his false white whiskers. Benson leaned down, trembling with excitement. He knew in a flash what he had to do.

  All I need is that red suit over what I’m wearing, and those whiskers.

  He glanced covertly over his shoulder toward the mouth of the alley; and then for the second time that night his fingers encircled a drunken man’s throat . . .

  Fifteen minutes later, Santa Claus walked out of the alley. With a white beard, a bulging pillow-stomach, a red flannel suit trimmed with rabbit fur, and warm leather boots, he was easily one of the best-dressed Santas in the city that night.

  Over his shoulders he carried a sandwich sign that he had found propped against the wall next to a man who would never moan in his sleep again.

  GIVE TO THE S.A.M. MISSION the sign said.

  He walked through the streets, unconcernedly heading for the business section. Lights from store windows and theater marquees played on his face as he walked. He rang a little bell with one hand and held a tin cup with the other.

  “Merry Christmas,” he called hoarsely. “Merry Christmas!” And the men and women who dropped quarters and dimes into the outstretched cup thought his smile was full of Christmas cheer . . .

  Joe Dixon, Detective First Grade, had a warm spot the size of a watermelon in his heart for Christmas. He was crazy about kids, and for years now he’d been the man on the force whose job it was to dress up as Santa Claus and go down to the Xavier Orphanage and distribute the gifts to the children there.

  Not many people knew that Dixon was an alumnus of Xavier himself.

  He never needed a pillow for the Santa job; he was naturally as round as a tub of butter, and always smiling. Almost always would be more exact. There were days on the job when the smells of lust and blood locked his mouth into a tired scowl.

  This was one of those days. In the last twelve hours two bulletins had come into the department. One concerned an escaped convict who’d murdered a guard, and another concerned an old tramp who’d been found half naked and dead in one of the city’s more squalid alleyways.

  Joe Dixon was angry. Christmas was the time of peace on earth and goodwill toward men. He considered it a personal affront that this year it should have come as a signal for a rash of brutal violence.

  And now he wouldn’t be able to go down to Xavier’s at six o’clock to play Santa for the kids; he’d be too busy . . .

  Headquarters was thrumming with activity. Road blocks had been set up at all the avenues of escape leading from the city and they were continuously reporting in; men were being assigned to search and research the area around the jail with a fine tooth comb; stoolies were being interviewed . . . And Joe Dixon was assigned to look into the case of the old tramp.

  He grumbled as he walked toward the alley where the body had been found. On a day like today, he thought, the newspapers should have happy headlines in red and green. Instead, big black letters were screaming: LIFER KILLS GUARD AND ESCAPES.

  Damn fool warden should have manacled him in his cell. A bad customer, that Benson, been convicted of everything but murder, though everyone knew he’d never stopped short of that.

  It was cold in the street, and Dixon walked fast. Stopping only to give a quarter to the Santa Claus who was collecting for the S.A.M. Mission on the corner of Brad and Fourth, he arrived shortly at the alley . . .

  Benson was shivering. He had walked the streets all night, ringing hi
s bell and calling out, “Merry Christmas.” Once he had stopped at a diner for coffee and a sandwich, and there he had permitted himself to the luxury of a smoke. Patrol cars kept whizzing by in the street, and men he recognized as detectives walked slowly along, carefully scrutinizing everyone.

  But who would suspect Santa Claus? People stopped in front of him only to add to the clinking pile of coins in his outstretched cup. He smiled despite the cold, and felt clever and safe.

  And what was most important—he’d had time to think. He knew now how he was going to get in touch with the gang in New York.

  It was ten o’clock in the morning when he stopped into a stationery store and asked for a pad and pencil. The proprietor wouldn’t let him pay.

  “After all,” the proprietor said, “for Santa—”

  He squeezed into a telephone booth, screwed up his eyes, gripped the pencil tight, and wrote slowly: Merry Christmas. Having a fine time here. Pick me up at City Hall right away. Love, Harry Black. And he addressed the message to a certain lawyer in New York who would know how to relay it immediately to the gang.

  He read what he had written and smiled again. Only this lawyer and two other men in New York knew him as Harry Black. It was a code name for just such an emergency; and the newspaper headlines would tell them what the emergency was. Chuckling, he added a fictitious return address, then walked out into the street.

  A few minutes later he beckoned to a short husky boy pulling a sled along the gutter. “Want to do Sanny a favor?” he asked.

  The boy nodded eagerly. “Take this down to Western Union—here’s enough change—and tell them to send it right away.”

  The boy scooted away with the paper clutched in his hand.

  Benson followed him with his eyes for a few seconds. Then, as he walked slowly through the streets, the smile on his face was broader than ever.

  After that, all day long, at hour intervals, he went to the small park in front of the City Hall and looked carefully at all the parked cars. He knew at least six hours would have to pass before anyone showed up, but he kept going, hoping desperately that good luck would bring them sooner.