Pulp Crime

by Jerry eBooks

  The phone on Odell’s desk buzzed. He picked it up, said, “Yeah, yeah,” and reached for a pencil. He listened a moment, writing occasionally. Then he said: “Okay, lady, we’ll send someone right over.”

  “Lindy, take this one,” he said, putting the phone down. “Some guy stuck his head in the oven and turned on the gas. That was his landlady.”

  “What’s the address?” Lindfors said.

  “Two-sixteen Crab Street. Fellow by the name of Sternmueller. Old guy, I guess.”

  “Is he dead?” Neelan asked.

  “The landlady smelled gas and went upstairs and found him in the oven,” Odell said, handing the slip of paper to Lindfors.

  Neelan stood up suddenly, glaring at Odell.

  “I asked you if he was dead,” he said in a hard tight voice.

  Odell looked at him with a frown. “Yeah, he’s dead. What the hell do you care?”

  Neelan sat down, anger surging through him. “I don’t care,” he said.

  Mark Brewster was watching him, he knew. He could feel the reporter’s eyes on him, sense his thoughts. Turning his head swiftly, he stared at Brewster, but the reporter wasn’t looking at him; he was gazing at the ceiling, a faint smile on his lips.

  Lindfors walked over to Mark and said: “You want this one?”

  “Two-sixteen Crab Street. That’s at Ellen’s Lane, isn’t it?” Mark said.

  “Yeah, that’s about where it comes in.”

  “Well, it’s probably worth a paragraph,” Mark said. “Come on, then. I’ll run you over.

  Miss Elmira Taylor, age fifty-six, had never known such an evening in her life. Finding poor Mr. Sternmueller like that was enough to make a body doubt the ways of Providence.

  She stood in the middle of his living-room, trembling with importance and excitement, and related the harrowing details to the two men from the Police Department.

  “I had just come from church, you see, and was fixing a bite for my niece Mary, and I said to her: “Well, Mary, summer brings all kinds of smells with it, don’t it?’—because I had noticed this funny smell in the hallway—”

  “Yeah, then you came upstairs,” Lindfors said, interrupting her with finality. “Was his door open?”

  “Yes, it was. I went in, and right away I smelled the gas stronger. I tell you, I nearly fainted. I ran into the kitchen, and there was the poor soul lying there with his head in the oven.”

  “Well, people do things like that,” Lindfors said, with a shake of his head. “Was he sick or anything?”

  “No, no. Mr. Sternmueller was the most cheerful man I think I ever knew. He was such a sweet person.” She put a handkerchief to her red eyes. “Full of fun and little jokes all the day long.”

  Mark put his copy-paper away and strolled to the front windows. He pulled the curtains aside, glanced down into the street, and a tiny frown gathered over his eyes. These windows, he realized, overlooked the spot where Dave Fiest had been killed. That didn’t mean anything necessarily, but he found the coincidence thought-provoking.

  Lindfors had gone into the kitchen. Mark returned to the dining-room and glanced at the cabinets built against the walls.

  “He collected timetables,” Miss Elmira said. “From all over the world. He had thousands of them right here in this room. It was all he cared about.”

  Mark picked up a few letters from a desk and looked through them. They were from various parts of the world, England, Sweden, Africa, and related to timetables received, dispatched, discovered or desired. Timetables were a big thing, he decided.

  He stepped into the kitchen, where Lindfors was on his knees beside Sternmueller’s huddled body.

  “This character was in the Division this afternoon,” Lindfors said. “I remember him now. He lost a blanket from his car.”

  “That’s no reason to commit suicide,” Mark said.

  THE coincidences were piling up in a curious fashion, he was thinking.

  “Did you take care of him?” he asked Lindfors.

  “No, Neelan did.” Lindfors bent over the body, humming under his breath. “See, he must have rolled over and hit an edge of the stove when he passed out.” He pointed to a faint discoloration along the old man’s jawline.

  “He didn’t tell you about the blanket, then,” Mark said. “Neelan told you that the old man had lost a blanket.”

  “Yeah, that’s right,” Lindfors said. He got to his feet and dusted off the knees of his trousers. “I’ve got enough. The landlady tells me he’s got no relatives that she knows about. You ready to go?”

  “No, I’ll stick around and see if I can pick up some background.”

  “Okay.” Lindfors walked through the dining-room, evaded Miss Elmira’s attempts to repeat the details of what had happened, and went out the front door.

  Mark lit a cigarette and strolled into the living-room. He sat on the edge of an armchair and pushed his hat back on his forehead.

  “You can’t think of any reason he’d kill himself?” he said to Miss Elmira.

  “Oh, no. He was always so happy.”

  “I see. Where did he keep his car?”

  “Car? He didn’t have a car.”

  Somehow, Mark wasn’t surprised. He was tired, and faintly bitter, but he wasn’t surprised. Everything fell inevitably into place. It was like a Greek tragedy, awesome, powerful, but predictable. The plot just wasn’t any good.

  “He didn’t have a car, eh?” Mark said. “Do you know if he was a sound sleeper?”

  “Well, now that you mention it, he wasn’t. He napped in the afternoon, of course, and he used to say that kept him from sleeping at night. But I always say old folks don’t need so much sleep as the young.”

  “That’s probably right,” Mark said. He glanced at the open windows, the curtains bellying slightly in the draft. “I’ll bet he sat over there where he could get a breath of air.”

  “That’s right, so he did. He used to sit there and smoke his pipe at nights.”

  “Thank you very much.”

  “He was such a nice man,” Miss Elmira said, coming with him to the door. She began to weep. “He was such a nice little man.”

  Mark patted her shoulder. “Yes, I’m sure he was,” he said quietly.

  Sergeant Odell was alone when Mark came in ten minutes later.

  “Is the Lieutenant in?” Mark asked.

  “Yeah, sure. Did you get the suicide, all right?”

  “Yes. Anything else doing?”

  “No, everything’s quiet.”

  “Fine.” Mark walked over and tapped on Ramussen’s door. Ramussen called out: “Come in.”

  He was at his desk, glasses on, reading reports.

  “Hello, Mark. What’s on your mind?”

  Mark sat on the edge of his desk and said, “I’d like to talk about Neelan, Lieutenant.”

  Something changed in Ramussen’s face. He removed his glasses and looked up at Mark with cold eyes. “I don’t want to hear about it, Mark. I was under the impression we understood each other on that subject.”

  “Are you telling me you won’t listen?”

  “I’m telling you that I’m running this Division, and I don’t need your help.”

  “Very well. Let me say just this much.” Mark lit a cigarette and tossed the match over his shoulder. “Reporters work pretty close to the Police Department here in Philly, and all over the country, I suppose. That’s okay on routine stuff, where it’s just a matter of taking names and addresses off forms. But occasionally something comes along where the private interests of the police and the reporter’s job of getting a story come into a conflict. Most reporters look the other way and play it the way the police want it played, because they’re likely to find themselves on the outside if they don’t.”

  “So?” Ramussen said.

  “So, this is to tell you I’m going after the story of Barny Neelan, with or without the Police Department. I’ve got a case against him, and if you don’t want it, I’ll take it down to my managing e
ditor. That’s not an attempt to scare you. I know you better than that. But neither is it a bluff. You know me better than that.”

  Ramussen stared at him with cold bright eyes. Then, slowly, deliberately he put his glasses on and picked up a report.

  “That’s it, eh?” Mark said.

  “That’s it.”

  “Okay.” Mark put his cigarette out in Ramussen’s ashtray and walked to the door. He turned the knob and then glanced back at the Lieutenant.

  Ramussen was watching him, frowning.

  “Okay,” he said. “I’m a cop first. I’ll remember this a long time, but let’s have it. What’s your case against Neelan?”

  Mark let the knob go and walked back to Ramussen’s desk. “First, Neelan gave a friend of mine twenty-five thousand dollars to keep for him the day after he killed Dave Fiest. I’ve seen the money.”

  Ramussen’s mouth was bitter. “Okay, Mark, who’s this friend?”

  “A girl named Linda Wade. She’s a singer at the Simba, and also a friend of Neelan’s.”

  “I see. Neelan figured Espizito wouldn’t guess that he’d given the money to a dame.”

  “She’s not a dame.”

  “She’s anything I want to call her, get that?”

  “Okay,” Mark said. “I don’t know what Neelan figured. I’m not a cop, so crooked angles don’t occur to me instinctively.”

  Ramussen looked down at the blotter on his desk for a moment, and then he shrugged. “You didn’t need to say that, Mark. Half the people in town will be saying it when the story on Neelan breaks. They’ll say, ‘There’s a typical cop for you. A lousy thief.”

  “I’m sorry, Lieutenant,” Mark said; and he was, genuinely sorry.

  “Let’s get on with the case. What else have you got? The twenty-five thousand doesn’t prove anything but larceny.”

  “You don’t think Neelan murdered Fiest for it?”

  “I believe evidence,” Ramussen said sharply. “If you’re so damn sure of yourself, why don’t you swear out a warrant and have him arrested?”

  Mark lit another cigarette carefully. “You’re not mad at me; you’re mad at yourself, Lieutenant. Why don’t you forget for a second that sacred wall cops build around themselves? Let’s start with the amiable assumption that we’re all human and fallible, and work together from there. I think Neelan has committed two murders, attempted one other, and incidentally, beat hell out of two of Espizito’s men. I can’t prove all of that yet, but with your help, I can.”

  Ramussen drummed his fingers on the top of the desk and looked away from Mark. “That sacred wall you talk about is pretty much a defensive measure. We’re considered the scum of the earth by a lot of law-abiding citizens, and we get sensitive about it.” He rubbed his forehead and said in a low bitter voice: “I knew what Neelan was up to. But I was waiting him out, hoping he’d hang himself. That’s my fault, I suppose. Uncritical loyalty. Well, let’s have it all. You said two murders, and an attempt.”

  “Okay. Tonight a man named August Sternmueller apparently committed suicide. He lived at the intersection of Crab Street and Ellen’s Lane. Does that mean anything to you?”

  “That’s where Dave Fiest was shot. Go on.”

  “Okay. Here’s the story.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  NEELAN WAS RIDING A HIGH WAVE OF CONTENTment. He sat in Linda’s apartment with his legs stretched out before him, holding a beaded glass of whisky and ice in his hand.

  “Kid, this is the life,” he said, grinning at her, and debating how much he could safely tell her of tonight’s activities. He knew that he was smart and strong; and it was important that she knew it too.

  Linda smiled back at him and glanced casually at her watch. Eight-forty. She was wearing slippers and a robe. She had decided not to do her show tonight, because her throat had got worse after Mark had left. Jim Evans had wanted to send a doctor over right away, but she thought it wasn’t that serious. Shortly after that Barny had arrived; and now she was wishing she’d made the effort to get to work.

  “Aren’t you on duty tonight?” she asked.

  “Sure, I’m working,” Neelan said, and sipped his drink. “But things are quiet. Don’t worry about me. You want to know a little secret, Linda?”

  “What is it?”

  “I may quit the Department. Yeah, that’s right.” He laughed and rubbed the cold glass between his palms. “It’s a lousy racket, you know. Lousy hours, lousy pay. But it’s got its compensations.” He laughed again, newfound confidence coursing through his body. “I’ll say that again. It’s got its compensations. You know, kid, a cop can do lots of things an ordinary citizen can’t. That ever occur to you?”

  The bottle was at his side on a table. He poured another generous shot over his ice and glanced at Linda. “You know, kid, we never talked like this before. We just never sat down and talked. That’s been the trouble.”

  Linda was smiling.

  “We’ve talked quite a bit, Barny.”

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right. But not like this. Not in a quiet room with a couple of drinks. With the world going by outside the windows, and not giving a damn about us. That’s what I mean.”

  He was silent a moment, pondering the truth of this, and then he glanced at his watch. The habits of seventeen years were too strong to shake off in one drunken exultant moment. “I’d better give Odell a call,” he said. “I’ll tell him I’m tied up and won’t be along for a while. They can get along without me for a few hours.”

  “Barny, aren’t you likely to get in trouble?”

  “You want me to go?” He smiled at her, confident and amused. “You want me to go, Linda?”

  “Well, no.”

  “Then let me worry about the trouble. Listen to how I handle this.”

  He walked to the phone, swaying slightly, and called the Division. When Odell answered, he said: “Sarge, this is Neelan. Look, I’m going to be a little longer than I thought on this job.” He winked broadly at Linda. “I’m at Empiro’s place. But I should be along in an hour or so.”

  “Okay,” Odell said.

  PUTTING the phone down, Neelan returned to his chair. “Now there’s a real Grade A slob for you,” he said. “Sergeant Odell!” He sat down and replenished his drink. Stretching out comfortably, he smiled at Linda.

  “Most cops are rock-headed characters, you know,” he said. “You didn’t know that, I’ll bet. But it’s a fact. They’re stupes, slobs. The only thing they know about is murder. They’re pros at that; it’s their racket. They could give any amateur a head start in that department and win hands down. They work with it all the time: they see it; they know what it is; and they’re not scared of it.” He sipped his drink, enjoying the thrill of skirting the subject of murder. “Let’s suppose a cop commits a murder,” he said. “Supposing he shoots a guy, just like that!” Neelan pointed his forefinger at Linda and depressed his thumb sharply. “He knows what’s going to happen; he knows the call that goes out for the wagon; he knows what Homicide will do, what they’ll look for; and he knows what the fingerprint men and the ballistics boys will do. You see? There’s no mystery about it, so there’s nothing to be scared of. The amateur doesn’t know anything about murder until he becomes a murderer. Then he’s scared and behaves like a nitwit. That’s a fact; nine out of ten times, the murderer catches himself, while the cops just stand by and make the pinch.

  It’s so damn simple.”

  He finished his drink and then walked across the room and sat down beside Linda.

  “I could commit a murder like that,” he said, grinning at her. “Got anybody you want out of the way? Glad to oblige. Hell, any cop could. That’s what they should be having us do instead of chasing down two-bit complaints.” The idea was new to him, but he found it appealing. “Yeah, how about that?” he said, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Ever think of all the crumbs that need to be swept up in this world? Just think of it for a minute. Look at the politicians. That’d keep cops busy for weeks,
just killing off all the politicians.” He stared straight ahead, looking through the windows into the darkness, and suddenly a slow strong anger ran through his body. “There’s guys like Pete Felickson, who you don’t know, and teachers, who make kids feel they’re something rotten, and bootleggers, and moochers and tramps and bums, none of them worth a damn, and guys like Dave Fiest, always trying to outsmart someone, and creeps like Sternmueller with their noses in everybody else’s business.” He was breathing harder, and his big hands clenched and unclenched slowly. “That’s how I should spend my time—getting rid of people like that.”

  “Dave Fiest,” Linda said. The name came to her lips involuntarily. Neelan turned and stared at her, and she felt her hands tremble.

  “Yeah, Dave Fiest,” he said. “That’s what I said. Dave Fiest. The guy I shot the other night.”

  “He—tried to get away, didn’t he?”

  “Yeah, that’s right,” Neelan said slowly. “He tried to escape, tried to be a smart guy.” He was silent a moment, frowning; and then he laughed shortly and nodded at his empty glass. “Mind if I make myself another, kid?” . . .

  Ramussen sat with his back to the desk staring out over the dark street. Mark leaned against a filing cabinet, a cigarette in his mouth.

  “We should hear from the police surgeon pretty soon.”

  “That’s right.” Ramussen lit a cigarette, and in its flaring lights his face was lined and pale.

  “Will you arrest him then?”

  “Yes,” Ramussen said. “We don’t get it that he killed Sternmueller, although I’m sure he did. Your guesses are probably all correct. Sternmueller came in to report something about Dave Fiest’s shooting, and had the bad luck to run into Neelan. Neelan lied to Lindfors about what the man really wanted; and then, when Odell gave him that job on Crab Street, he ducked into Sternmueller’s.”

  They were silent a few moments. Then the phone buzzed. The Lieutenant picked it up, and said, “Ramussen, Thirteenth Detectives.” He waited a moment, then said: “Go ahead.”

  Mark moved closer to the desk. Ramussen listened in silence for a few seconds, then said: “That’s definite, then?” He paused again, then said: “Thanks, Doctor.” He put the phone down and glanced up at Mark. “Sternmueller had no gas in his lungs. He died of a heart attack, apparently induced by a blow that struck his jaw just below the right ear. It’s murder, all right.” He pressed a buzzer.