Pulp Crime

by Jerry eBooks

  “So? She’s all the old boy intimated, I suppose?”

  He grinned sourly. “I don’t know what the old boy intimated, but she’s a rough one; gave me a very bad time.”

  “She pretty, Scott?”

  He wrung a laugh out of the grin. “Yes, in a way. You’d think so if you were about half lit and didn’t care what happened to you. In my sober moments, I’d say she was hard.”

  “She all broke up over Gerald’s death?”

  “At first,” he shrugged. “Two minutes of that, though, and she tired of the part. She’s interested only in what she gets as his widow.”

  “You think she did it?”

  He thought that over. “I’m not saying, Kelly; I’m not going to book her now, however.”

  “Good. You’d be making a mistake if you did.”

  “You think so?”

  “Look, Scott,” I said, “doesn’t it seem funny, in the first place, that Gerald should be dead at all? Especially since it was old man Walker who was supposed to die today?”

  Scott nodded. “Yes,” he admitted slowly. “I’ve been thinking that, too. But not funny. Ironic, rather.”

  “Okay, ironic. Now, sneak up on that thought, son.”

  “There isn’t any sneaking to be done. Gerald’s dead and that’s that. All I want to know is—what was the motive?”

  I shook my head sadly at the old boy. It grieves me when a good brain like Scott’s goes to sleep right in the middle of the feature picture. He just stood there sort of looking away into space, little beads of sweat sparkling like jewels in his forehead.

  “Ah, yes,” I murmured. “Well, Scottie, so long now.”

  He suddenly snapped to attention. “So long? Didn’t you have something to tell me? A report?”

  “Oh, that,” I brushed.

  “Yes, that. What’s on your mind?”

  “You really listening, sob?”

  His nose narrowed a bit at the nostrils when I called him that, but he only nodded.

  “Okay. I spoke to old man Walker. He dislikes his nephew’s wife. In fact, he changed his will so that Gerald wouldn’t inherit a cent; wouldn’t even let the poor boy live with him any more.”

  Scott was looking straight into my eyes. I couldn’t tell whether be was studying me, or whether he had dropped off to dreamland again. So I kept on talking. “The dear old gent doesn’t know whether he’s still afraid of getting killed. I asked him and it set him thinking. Moody thinking. There’s my report, chief.”

  A kindly smile played about Scott’s wet face. He continued to smile; it looked as if it was pasted there.

  “Something funny has been said?” I asked.

  “H’mm. I was just thinking of my remark about you working for Homicide, Kelly. When you called me Chief.”

  “Merely a name,” I shrugged. “Homicide’s not my dish; it sickeneth me.”

  “Yes. Aren’t we all? Well, I guess you’ve told the truth—partially, at least. Something else, Kelly. Are you entirely through with Miss Farnam? I mean about the money end of it?”

  “Conscience bother you?” I spoke to someone. Nobody in particular.

  “Conscience!” he sniffed. “I’ve always had a weakness for Irishmen, that’s all. I thought that since you have bothered to speak with Walker again, you might have made more arrangements with Miss Farnam. Well, just in case, you have my blessings with your investigations—should Walker be killed. But be careful!”

  “My gosh!” I said. For a minute I looked carefully at him. He did look sick, now that I thought of it. “Pretty generous, Scott.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  “Okay. One good turn from you. Ditto from me. Listen carefully. Don’t waste time looking for motives for Gerald’s death. There aren’t any.”

  “Why?” Scott whispered, his eyes almost closed but still looking at mine.

  But that was enough from James J. for one day. I crept softly toward the door. “ ‘Bye, son,” I said.

  LINDA WALKER, nee Raleigh, must have had a small roll somewhere because she lived in a nice apartment on Main near Second in Riverside. Not snooty, just pretty refined. I blushed with shame when I punched eight bell buttons in the old time-worn manner and grabbed the door when the little click bid me enter. The apartment I wanted was on the third floor, front. Quiet, sedate, well-groomed—where nice people live.

  Tall, blonde, lovely skin answered the door for me when I knocked softly. Eyes that looked at me were brown, which gave me the thought that the hair was bleached. Maybe I was wrong, maybe not.

  “Hello Mrs. Walker,” I said, slipping her one of my cards that said I was a bright young man like you’d expect.

  She read the little card and questioned me with the brown eyes.

  I dragged up all the charm combined with understanding that I figured must be in me. “Would you please talk a little with me, Mrs. Walker? It won’t hurt too much; I’m a nice feller, honest.”

  Brown eyes closed and opened fast, then laughed. Some eyes can do that without half trying. She just pulled the door open farther and walked into the apartment again: I followed and picked out a nice-looking chair that had bamboo for a framework. I half noticed that the covering on the chair matched with exactitude the stuff on the walls which I vulgarly thought of as paint.

  “I met your husband only once, Mrs. Walker; I don’t think he liked me much. But we were scheduled to have become better acquainted. Only now, of course, we can’t. So I’ve come to you for help.”

  One rare, precious word escaped her lips before she could catch it. “How?” she asked.

  “I’ve been retained by a Phyllis Farnam to solve the murder of Gerald’s uncle William.”

  That did it. The eyes popped and the mouth dropped open. “What?”

  “Yeah. Of course uncle William hasn’t been killed—yet, but he’s due today.”

  The brown eyes widened again with what I thought was disgust. She got up from the divan and walked to the door.

  “Where you going?” I asked.

  “Nowhere, but you are. Did it ever occur to you that my husband is dead—and that I might be feeling sad?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said hastily. “I might have been more delicate about this. And I would have, except that I don’t think your grief is exactly bowing you down.”

  Her left hand was on the satiny door knob. I was watching it. You’d expect her muscles would have tensed when I told her that, but nothing like that was happening. She looked like she was leaning on the knob for comfort.

  “You know,” I continued. “You’d be a good looking gal if you’d only quit acting. It’s out of season here anyway. Hollywood’s fifty miles away and folks around here never even heard of it.”

  “You don’t say,” she said in her most natural manner.

  “So, come on back here and talk like a human. Maybe I’ll forget the acting of a minute ago when I find out just how sweet and loveable you really are.”

  She put both hands on her hips and pinned me down with her eyes. “I oughta bust you one in the teeth for that crack,” she said coldly.

  “Yeah, only you wouldn’t.”

  “Oh, wouldn’t I?”

  “Well,” I temporized, “if you’d like to try, go ahead. And as soon as you do, I’ll smash your cute little nose flat against your makeup. And I ain’t kidding, sweetheart. When it comes to you, I’d just as soon paste you one as spit. And I feel like spitting right now.”

  SHE CAME back to the divan and sat down. Just as though everything was natural and she was back home in Missouri or Texas or Kansas somewhere and her father was talking to her again just like he did when she was fifteen.

  “You unspeakable name!” she said flatly. Then her mouth relaxed. She was feeling better. She was on home grounds again.

  “That’s me,” I agreed. “And now for a bit of advice. You might as well collect Gerald’s insurance and get out. You’ll never get anything else; the old boy changed his will last week.”

  Her ey
es left me and studied the rug.

  “You won’t do so badly,” I reasoned. “Of course, you won’t get all the insurance and estate that Gerald left. Uncle will come in for some of it—unless he left a will, of course.”

  And for the first time Linda smiled. “He did,” she said agreeably. “And all for me!”

  “Good. I hope you enjoy every penny of it.”

  “Oh it isn’t so much!” she flared. Suddenly she got another thought. “What are you here for, anyway?”

  “Information,” I said. “I’ll make it quick and interesting. First, did you kill your husband?”

  “Hell, no,” she said with a lilt on the ‘no’ such as you hear in Nevada even nowdays.

  “Why not?” I asked with a nice load of surprise in my voice.

  “Why should I? I could stand that dope of a Gerald, let him go to his church meeting if he wanted to. I can entertain myself I guess. Besides, Uncle Will was due to kick in soon. I figured that we’d be rolling in it before long. Then I could kick Gerald out and live.”

  I couldn’t keep it back. I had to say it: “Brother!” I breathed. “Okay, Mrs. Walker. Now another. Two, in fact. Do you know who might have killed him? And what was he doing at his uncle’s house last night when he should have been here with you?”

  “No, dammit,” she said, provoked. “I don’t know what the jerk was doing over there. He was supposed to be seeing a client.”

  “Who?”

  “I wouldn’t know. He just said he had to meet a client. And I don’t know who would kill him. Tell me, who would bother?”

  “I don’t know. I wish I did,” I said.

  “You want to know what I think? I think nobody would bother. That jerk!”

  “Yeah,” I said. Then I got up and moseyed over to the door. The rug was nice and thick. Gave me a good feeling going through it. When I was at the door I thought of something else and turned again. “Mrs. Walker?”

  “What?”

  “The world is full of different people and they all have their points of view. But sometimes others can’t appreciate that point of view. That’s what starts wars. So, when you go over to see old man Walker, why not sort of wear the black and weep a bit, huh? It’ll look better.”

  As I closed the door I heard a couple of words from her: “Another jerk!” she was saying to herself.

  I TOOLED the Plymouth over to Yacuta Drive again. The afternoon was getting late and I wasn’t sure if I was breaking in on their dinner hour or not, but I picked up the knocker on the Farnam’s little bungalow.

  The door opened slowly and I came face to face with Miss Farnam’s father. Although I had seen him in a rather vague manner when I was there before, this was the first time I got a good look at the old bird. Austerity, the noun, means severity of manner of life; harsh discipline; rigorous simplicity. But its cousin, the adjective, austere, when applied to Mr. Farnam, was weak indeed. Mr. Farnam was not austere; he was the grand-daddy of all ascetics. When he breathed, he did so sparingly and with great dignity. His was the simple, cup-of-cold-water type of existence. It stuck out all over him like a basketball in a bowl of soup.

  “You,” he pronounced solemnly.

  I felt like saying, “What did you expect, Mrs. Zelinsky?” but somehow there was too much surprise in it for me. I let it ride.

  “So you know me.”

  “My daughter may know you,” he corrected. “I know of you.”

  “Okay, I’m James J. Kelly. Until now a happy sort of guy. Keep me that way, huh?” All this short time I’m casually looking for his hearing aid. He must have one. Miss Farnam said he was deaf, and yet he hears me perfectly although I’m speaking in a normal voice. And then, when I thought I had made a fine dandy discovery, I saw it. A thin almost invisible wire peeped out from behind his ear and snuck ashamed-like down his neck and into his collar somewhere. He was wearing one of those bone conductor outfits. It didn’t show much from the front. Somehow, I felt sorry for the old bird. “Excuse the flippancy,” I said apologetically. “I’d like to see Miss Farnam, if I could.” His old gray head shook slowly from side to side somewhat like a tired old horse does when he looks at you over a fence. “Not today, not today,” he whispered. “My daughter is sick.”

  “Sick?” I repeated stupidly.

  The handsome old man forgot my existence. He raised his gray mane and searched the late afternoon sky with his watery old eyes. “May the gracious Maker,” he prayed, “deliver her from the evils which beset her this hour.” Then the old head bowed and he muttered “Amen,” and closed the door in my face. Funny, but I didn’t mind. I’ve seen crackpots here and there of various kinds, but for some reason or other I felt like I had just been in church.

  I WALKED slowly back to the car, thinking. What to do now? And was there anything to do at all. I was trying to earn my two hundred bucks but really I didn’t know how. There was one big thing wrong, of course. The right guy hadn’t died—as yet, that is—so I was without a corpse to work with. I felt kind of naked.

  The old office in the Graham building was still there when I got back to it. Don’t now why I didn’t go home. Guess I just wanted to think out why Gerald had gone over to see Miss Farnam last night. That is, if it were she he went to visit. Linda had said a client. I guessed it had been Phyllis Farnam, but I didn’t know why. But thinking didn’t help any. I’ve never been very good at that at any time in my life. Don’t know why I expected anything now.

  For luck, I called Homicide on the phone. No luck, “hey told me Scott was out. So I tried the Walker residence, and got one of the strong boys. “Yeah?” I got.

  “Lieutenant Scott there?” I asked.

  There was whispering and then, “Who’s calling?”

  “Kelly. He’s heard of me.”

  More whispering and then Scott’s voice. “Well, Kelly?”

  “Nothing much, Inspector,” I drawled sleepily. “Just reporting; nothing to report. I saw the widow of young Gerald. Quite a lady. Went to Farnam’s. Miss Farnam is sick—the father says. Now back in my little office.”

  “Thank you, Kelly,” Scott said politely. It staggered me. The more I hung around him, tire better he treated me. That couldn’t be normal unless I had something on the ball, and knowing me like I do, I doubted that. He offered me no news, just murmured some more politeness that fell on my happy ears and hung up. I was beginning to worry. Scott must be sick, I thought.

  5

  WHAT DID I have to work with? Nothing, I decided. Not forgetting brains, either. Nothing too disturbing, however. As far as my conscience was concerned, I hadn’t let Miss Farnam down.

  On the other hand I hadn’t done anything to earn the two hundred, but that wasn’t my fault. The victim simply hadn’t been killed. But I did want to keep abreast of things so I summed it all up on a little scrap of paper that I found in my waste basket. It looked like this when I got through:

  I. Walker was due to get killed.

  2. Gerald, his nephew, is removed instead.

  3. Presumably, old man Farnam still wants Walker to die—for wronging his daughter.

  4. Walker isn’t grieved over Gerald’s death.

  5. Gerald has a widow who isn’t grieved either.

  6. Is there a connection between widow and Farnam?

  There wasn’t too much to think about in this, but the whole business, as I found out later, hinged on why Walker was due to die. I didn’t know that then, though.

  I didn’t have too much trouble finding out what club the Walker, nee Raleigh, woman had worked at. It was a “picturesque” spot and right inside the city on Orange Street, nestled behind a row of Lombardi trees. As I saw it from inside my little Plymouth coupe, I wondered some about what would be going on inside. For, walking with measured steps up and down in front of the club were two sandwich men who were picketing the joint. Their signs protested the unfair management inside who wouldn’t hire Onion Labor, and urged prospective patrons to avoid the place.

  What made me wonde
r was the fact that the Siam—for that was its name—was lit up like a Christmas tree, glowing neon tubes embracing the edges of the building like a white-hot wire basket.

  The pickets tossed a few readymade cracks at me as I went in through the Siam’s doors but they were weak-kneed and I figured the boys were sort of tired of the job.

  A hat check girl eyed me speculatively as I walked toward her. I wasn’t wearing a hat but I laid a half dollar on the counter before her anyway.

  “That’s for what?” she asked me, her little nose turning up in what somebody must have told her was a cute look.

  “An apology,” I said quietly; “I’m not wearing a hat. Also, I’m a crackpot who throw’s money around right and left.”

  “Oh. A big spender.”

  I smiled at her. “Yeah. You must have seen my picture somewhere. Two questions.”

  “I’ll see you.”

  “The joint’s picketed and yet it’s going full blast. How come?”

  The little nose turned up cute-like again. “Oh, gosh!” she cried. “Thought everybody knew that gag. Minego—big cheese here—hired the pickets for a stunt. Makes the customers feel real brave ‘crashing’ the picket line. Business packed up ten percent since they’ve been outside.”

  “Hmm,” I said.

  “What’s the other, big boy? Your time’s running out.”

  “Okay. What did Linda Raleigh do when she worked here?”

  That chilled it. The girl looked down at the half buck as though it were a great big soil spot on the pure white counter. I pulled my hand up and laid it over the half buck. Then I removed the hand. There was another fifty-cent piece lying on top of the first.

  “Gee,” the girl said. “You certainly burn holes all over the place with your money, don’t you?”

  “There’s plenty more where that came from,” I explained. “Only trouble is I can’t get hold of it.”

  “Poor kid,” she said. “Well, sonny, Linda used to sing here, the ads said. Personally, I never saw the resemblance.”

  “Friend of Minego?”

  For that I got an innocent look. My three minutes were up. “You didn’t get your money’s worth, mister,” she said. “On the other hand, you can’t always tell. Minego’s office is behind that little door over there.” She held out my money to me.