“Well,” I answered, “look at it this way. Hurd was an enemy force in a strong position. He’d bottled up his rear and flanks, and his communications were pretty strong. But while he was busy with all this, he forgot about his most vital defense point—his front line!”
“I think,” said the Lieutenant, frowning, “I see what you mean.”
I didn’t answer him. I’d just caught sight of a wreath in the car ahead. It was the one I’d sent McGregney. It was marked: From the Generalissimo.
DOOM BOOM, by Glenn Low
Originally published in 10-Story Detective, Nov. 1946.
CHAPTER I
The boat whistles from the river gave a hollow, resounding tone, prophesying a change of weather. A neon-pinked fog swaddled the Hill District lights, throwing a shimmering orange gauze across the jitter-bugging letters of the mammoth electric chewing-gum sign on the city cliffs. Over the fog, and the world, the sky was minus a moon and starless. A moist vapor slapped gently at Detective Tony Childers’ good-humored face as he hurried from his car to Gentz’s candy store.
He was thinking of the two-gallon pot of coffee steaming away on the hotplate in his room at detective headquarters, also of the dozen doughnuts stored in his locker. He was hungry, and anticipation of the feed he’d promised himself practically had him drooling.
When old man Gentz had phoned in a while ago and reported that a dead man was sitting at a booth in his confectionery, Lieutenant Jock Anderson had singled Childers out to go take a look.
“The old guy’s probably boozy,” Anderson had said, “but go give it a look, Tony. Maybe some lug died of indigestion from eating some of Gentz’s gumdrops. I’ll keep the coffee warm ‘til you get back.”
“It’s a job for the uniforms,” Childers had complained. “They’re the lads who pull kids’ kitties off the trees and stir the snooze bums in the penny-clip joints. This is Homicide, but who’d ever guess?”
He drove the four blocks over to Gentz’s in his own car, fast, afraid some of the dicks would find and consume his hidden doughnuts.
Mr. Gentz met Childers in front of his store, a nervous grin splitting his fat wrinkled face. “It was only a customer we missed when we closed up,” he explained. “He was asleep in a booth. Somebody saw him through a window and phoned my house. I dressed and came right down. When I saw him sleeping there, I—I guess I flew off the handle a little. I thought he was dead. I’m sorry to have bothered you fellows, but I didn’t have the nerve at first to take a closer look.”
“Where’s the guy now?” asked Childers, no longer interested in the business.
“I woke him and he went home.” Gentz locked the store, then went to his car, parked at the curb. He offered Childers a cigar.
“Don’t use ‘em,” the detective told him.
Gentz thanked him, said good-night, then drove away.
“Rattle-brained old bunny,” Childers mused, then remembering the hot coffee and doughnuts made a beeline for his coupe. The cry for help came just as he slipped the key into the ignition. He scooted out, glanced up and down the block.
A moment later Simon Tork appeared in front of his shoe store eight doors away. The cry had come from that direction. Childers started toward the little shoe merchant. Two men left a car in front of Tork, walked over to him. They were strangers to Childers. When he reached Tork the men had returned to their car and driven away.
Childers had known Simon Tork for several years. “You hear somebody yap for help just now?” he asked after he’d greeted him.
“It—it was me, Tony,” said Tork, his flat, loose face twitching with what looked like fear.
“Those birds trying to lift your wallet?”
Tork wagged his head. “No. It was before they drove up, I was working late and—”
“Late?” Childers cut in. “You know it’s after two A.M.?”
Tork nodded loosely. “I’ve been having trouble with my old partner, Aussie Mellon. Two weeks ago I bought out his interest in the store. There were some receipts I couldn’t find. Aussie says he’s got more money coming—that I didn’t pay some bills like I said. We had a big fuss. So tonight I was looking for those receipts, to prove I paid those bills. A while ago I went into a little room behind my office where we keep some old files, and there—”
Tork stopped speaking, sucked in a long breath. He glanced up and down the block, his face pale, thin lips twitching. “Let’s go inside,” he said. “He’s still there. You’ll see why I cried for help.”
He pulled a ring of keys from his coat, stooped to unlock the door. A car turned from an alley, its headbeams stroking the business fronts across the street. Childers watched it a moment, then turned to follow Tork inside.
The storekeeper had unlocked the door when the car stopped behind them. There was a whizzing sound, a thud, a crunch. Childers caught Tork’s body as it slumped forward. The car roared away.
A hot wetness touched the detective’s hands. He caught the weakening shudder as life deserted the little merchant. Easing the body onto the pavement, he felt for the murder instrument.
He found it at the nape of Tork’s neck. Grasping a thin handful of feathers, he pulled it out. It was a huge dart with a striking point ten or twelve inches long. The point was set in a slim haft of leaded cork. The haft was tufted with waxed turkey feathers.
“Medieval,” Childers muttered, staring at the bloody dart. “Likely they had guns to back them up if it missed. Wonder why they didn’t use guns?” He looked back, saw wispy fog-goblins silently dancing along the thoroughfare. “Bullets can be traced, a thing like this, never,” he mused.
The sensation that hostile eyes probed him through the fog tingled his spine. On the river a boat whistle hooted dismally. A cat appeared, as if from nowhere. He kicked it away from the corpse, produced a flashlight from his coat, and entered the dark shoe store.
There was a phone on a wrapping counter. He dialed detective headquarters, told Lieutenant Anderson what had happened. “Yes,” he said, when ready to hang up, “it is a dart. A big one with turkey feathers.”
Anderson said he’d be right over, snapped back the phone. Childers entered the office in back. A door opposite him was closed. He opened it, flicked on the light.
A man lay in the middle of the floor. Childers recognized him, noted what looked like a bullet hole between his wide-stretched eyes. “Too bad, Joey,” he murmured, ovaling the deadish face in the light. “You sure came down in the world, working the bleed on small fry like Tork.”
The sprawled figure was Joe Estramer, alias a dozen other guys. Artist in blackmail, inventor of many new con-game tricks. Smooth, smart, deadly, cruel—Estramer had been the synthesis of them all. It would have been no surprise had Childers found his corpse in a ritzy suite at some swanky hotel; but here—here in a dusty back room of an ordinary shoe store?
Estramer wore a black and grey pencil-stripe suit, white shirt, maroon tie. A light grey felt hat stood, crown up, on the floor beside him. Facts in the killing seemed clear enough to Childers. The blackmailer had been there to squeeze money from Tork. Tork had killed him. Estramer’s pals had got even—
His deduction hit a snag. Estramer had never traveled with a pack. Estramer had always worked strictly solo. Childers wondered what blackmail engendering deed lived in Tork’s past. He couldn’t imagine Tork ever committing a crime. Before going to Estramer he moved a spot of light around the room. There was a blank wall, a filing cabinet, a corner, a window—
The light hit her and the girl screamed like she was stabbed. He saw trim heels, curvaceous legs, a slim ivory-colored hand as she scrambled through an open window. He heard her heels clicking on the alley brick as he went through after her. He was maybe fifty feet behind when she turned onto the through stem.
He almost bumped into three musicians as he turned
the corner. A quick glance told him the trio was returning home from an all night shindig. One of them was a Goliath, a veritable man-mountain. It was he who grabbed Childers’ shoulder, jerked him up and back. “Hold, guy. What yer chasin’ the lady fer?”
Childers flashed his badge. The big man set him down like he was on fire. “She went that away,” he said, pointing to the black jaws of an alleyway. “Atween them buildin’s”
The alleyway was so narrow Childers’ shoulders rubbed. He made to thumb on his flash. It was slapped from his fingers. Something hard smacked his head, but he didn’t fade. He struck out blindly. Somebody grunted. A man’s voice said, “Take it easy, bo.”
Fingers clawed his gun from his shoulder-rig. Hands took him from behind. Then it really got dark—too dark for this world.
He heard a click, felt his feet leave the ground, only he still stood on something firm. His body shot upward, swung over, swayed slowly through space. Such a crazy angle? Why didn’t he fall, land somewhere? Something like hair was in his eyes.
A car’s motor roared. He was moving. Not an inch from his ear a feminine voice whispered, “Are you alive?”
He whispered back, “I’m alive. Who are you?”
“Miss Flower Blue,” said the whisper. “Who are you?”
“Tony Childers, a ham from Homicide.”
“A detective?”
“Suit yourself,” he said, disgustedly. “Could a detective get in such a jam?”
“Where are we?” asked the girl.
“I don’t know. Are you the girl I chased?”
“Must be,” she said. “But I didn’t kill Joey. I didn’t know you were a detective.”
“Who killed him then?”
“I don’t know. He’s been hanging around Annie Mayes.”
“Cockleburr Annie Mayes?”
“Yes. A while ago I thought he was on his way to meet her. I followed him in my car. You know, Joey’s been on his good behavior since that fur swindle at Fornash’s. You know about that?”
“Yes. Joey came clear on that play by less than the skin of his teeth. But it would take more than that to scare him out.”
“He’s been seeing Annie Mayes a lot lately. And last night I thought he was going to meet her. But he wasn’t. It was Julius Carp. He met Julius Carp.”
“Julius Carp? Hmmm,” purred Childers. “Wonder where we are? We’re moving. Suppose we’re inside a coffin?” The girl was cool. He marveled at her composure, thought it strange he’d never heard of her. “Could be,” she said.
Julius Carp’s dishy face with its pigeon-foot wrinkles, agate eyes, and pasty skin jumped in the dark before Childers’ eyes. The little trail away from hot coffee and doughnuts was sure leading into a morass-macabre.
The girl said, “Carp and two men, one of them a big fellow, got into Joey’s car. I drove around after them a while, then lost them. Later I saw Joey’s car parked near Tork’s shoe store.” She paused, her whisper seeming to dry out.
“Go on,” said Childers. While she talked there wasn’t so much danger their plight would send her into hysterics. So far she’d displayed admirable courage.
“I parked and waited in my car,” she said. “In a few minutes Carp came from an alley beside Tork’s store, glanced up and down the block, then went back. I got out, entered the alleyway, stood just inside it. After a while Carp and three men came from Tork’s store. Joey wasn’t with them. I knew Carp had gone through the alleyway and entered the store from the alley.
“I went back to the alley. At the rear of the store I found a window open. It was dark inside. I must have been crazy, worried over Joey like I was. Anyway, I climbed through the window, was feeling my way along a wall when a fellow came in with a flashlight—you.”
She was probably lying, Childers decided. He knew headquarters would never swallow such a story. “When I put the light on Joey was the first you knew he was dead, eh?”
“Yes,” she said. “I thought you were with Carp. That’s why I ran.”
“You knew Joe Estramer well, huh?”
“Very.” Her whisper was softer when she spoke of Estramer, sketchy with little bumps.
“You think Joey was in on some scheme with Carp?”
“No. Joey hated Carp.”
“Got any ideas?” He was guessing that she’d probably been in the shoe store with Estramer when he was killed, and was making her getaway when he discovered her.
“Only that Carp must be mixed in with Joey’s murder somehow. Carp is soft on Cockleburr Annie, and Joey’s been playing up to her. Naturally Carp wouldn’t love him for that.”
Childers knew Cockleburr Annie Mayes. She was the boldest item in females in town. She was beautiful with her boldness, though, a soft blonde with sad eyes. A hole-in-the-wall night club, the Cameo, over on Cameo Street, featured her as a singer. The night club belonged to Julius Carp.
Carp also owned another spot across town, the Medieval Sports Club, a joint where games of the Middle Ages were resurrected and indulged in by a bunch of crackpots. Carp was a master at discus throwing. Childers guessed that Cockleburr Annie had been beating Flower Blue’s time with handsome Joey Estramer.
Suddenly the girl moved a hand, pressed something against his chest. “It’s a gun,” she said. “I found it in Tork’s back room, near the wall. Maybe it’s the gun that was used on—on Joey.”
He took it, knew by touch that it was a .32 revolver. Sniffing it he knew that it hadn’t been fired recently. “I’ll keep it,” he said. “Tell me, where do you live, where do you work?”
“I live at Bixler Court. I’m a model at Fornash’s.”
“Live alone?”
“Now I do.” A moment’s pause, then fine said, “I didn’t kill Joey.”
“How’d you get in here—wherever we are?”
“I ran into a blanket, or something like one,” she told him. “I turned into an alley to get away from you. Somebody caught me in the dark, wrapped me, unwrapped me. I couldn’t see where they were putting me. A minute later they put you in—there’s a door of some kind.”
Suddenly all motion quit. Outside somebody said, “Okay. Fetch them out.” Whatever encased them moved, swung upward. “We’re being carried,” whispered the girl. “Do you really think we’re in a coffin?”
“Might be, but don’t get the jitters now. Keep your head.”
“They want to get rid of us because they think we know too much,” she said, her voice shaky for the first time. “They might bury us or drop us in the river.”
“We’d hear the boat whistles if we were near the river. It’s a foggy night,” he reminded her.
All at once it was as if they were inside a can and dropped onto the pavement. Maybe ten seconds skipped by, then there came a click. Fresh air flowed over them. Outside it was dark. A voice said, “Get out, flatfoot”
Childers obeyed. The click came again. Feet sounded, moving away. The gun that jammed Childers’ ribs held steadily. They were taking the girl away. He marveled that she didn’t cry out.
A jab from the gun punctuated a voiced order. “Move up, straight ahead.” Childers walked, counting his steps. Forty and he ran into a wall. No! A wall didn’t move. A sliding door. He was shoved into space.
He lit on his feet with a jar that burst a batch of stars in front of his eyes. The drop had been maybe fifteen feet. The darkness was airy ebony. Dropping to one knee, he felt the floor. It was sticky. He sniffed it. Oil.
A sliding, groaning sound came from above. Fear touched him a cold flash, passed on, leaving him angry, eager, ready to fight. Fight? The sound drew nearer, then something struck his face. He grabbed it. An oily cable. He knew where he was then—in a pit at the bottom of an elevator shaft. The elevator was coming down.
Childers moved fast, inspecting
the walls with the flat of his hands. The walls were concrete, very smooth. He went onto his knees, felt over the floor. It was laid with unmortared brick. He stood up and bumped his head on the underside of the descending elevator. It was coming down slowly, filling the shaft like a cork fills a bottle mouth. Death would come like that, slowly, horribly.
Fear wedged a dry knot in his throat, raced his heart madly. The pattern of his coming murder was not intricate, but of a design that would baffle by its very simplicity. He would be found squashed, but who could ever say how he’d got into the pit?
He dropped to his knees. In a few seconds the elevator platform caressed his shoulders. He dropped onto his stomach, rolled over onto his back. If it came all the way he’d take it in the face, damn them!
Strangely then, Childers wondered if any of the boys had looted his locker in the squad room and eaten his doughnuts. His next thought was of something he’d once read—something about a dying queen who’d used her last breath to inquire concerning the fate of a fly that had buzzed into a spider’s web.
“How damned inappropriate!” he muttered. With a bumping crunch the elevator settled down solidly.
CHAPTER II
For perhaps a minute the elevator remained at the bottom of the shaft, then lifted slowly, stopping when its platform touched even with the basement ceiling. The basement was flooded with light now. A tall young man, nattily dressed, flashlight in hand, leaned under the cage and peered into the pit. All he saw was three stacks of oily bricks, two feet high and neatly placed. Above his head, noiselessly, Tony Childers swung out, let go the cable guides, and fell onto his back.
The man whirled, dislodging Childers. The detective recognized him as he jammed the unloaded .32 against his chest. It was a bluff he thought would work.
“You ought to make sure when you try for a kill,” Childers said, eyes gleaming behind big smudges of oil and grease. “Those loose floor bricks sure will cause you plenty of hell!”
The Walt Whitman MEGAPACK ™ Page 8