The Hardboiled Mystery Megapack

by John Roeburt

  She shook her head and all her chins danced. “Walk?” She chuckled. “You funny enough to be on TV. Brooklyn is maybe ten-twenty miles from here. My God, Coney Island must be fifty miles. Better you take subway.”

  “Sure it would be better but I have to walk.” I held up the dime. “I was in an accident, lost my money. This is all I have going for me, at the moment. Which way do I start walking?”

  “Two blocks down and turn right, to subway,” she said, placing a nickel on the counter. “Take this. And please, no wine.”

  “Thank you. I’m not a wino, no matter how I look. I’ll return this by mail soon as…”

  The chins did their dance again to another short chuckle. “No bother, I don’t ask for it back. What’s a nickel today? Penny is almost useless, five cents hardly buy anything. I used to have big display of nickel candy. Soon a dime be the same way, then quarter…all very bad. Frightens me. You use subway and be careful, no more schnapps.”

  At the door I waved and said, “Madame, for a few hours today I was convinced people are no damn good. May a good life be yours.” I gave her a little bow, too.

  Walking toward the subway I wondered if I was batty. Over a lousy jit I was starting to talk like a professional beggar. Me, the joker who’d been straining his wrist tipping everybody ten bucks last night.

  On the downtown platform I asked a subway guard which train went to Brooklyn. He said, “Brooklyn covers a lot of territory. What address you want?”

  “All I want is to get to Brooklyn,” I snapped, full of suspicion.

  “Take any train on this express track,” he said, running his eyes over my clothes and turning away.

  I boarded a near empty train and sat down, realizing how bushed I was. A little girl sitting across the aisle started to giggle. Sitting, the big rip in my pants showed most of my leg and everybody could see the torn shoe. I tried covering my leg with my overcoat but that was ripped too. I walked over to a map pasted on one window of the car to find the street Hal’s wife lived on. I’ve studied some complicated sailing charts but I never saw anything like this map of the city. Finally I got a fix on an avenue that crossed Hal’s street—after I figured out which subway I had to be on.

  The farther downtown we went the more crowded the car became. I worried about whether I was being followed: I didn’t want to bring my troubles to Hal or have the clowns chasing me have the opportunity of learning my real name. I remembered what Rose had once told me—how when she was on the run she had stepped out of the first car and waited to see if anybody else stepped out farther down the train.

  I’d been keeping track of the stations on the map and had a long way to go, so I walked through the train, keeping my coat collar up and my bloody neck from frightening anybody. Reaching the first car I stepped out at the next stop and glanced down the length of the train. More people than lived on Ansel’s island seemed to be getting in and out. However, a few stations later it was better—the platform was almost empty. I stepped out and waited. Several cars down a pretty girl came out, then a guy in a windbreaker, and farther down an old man. I made a feint at stepping back in but all of them kept walking toward the exit. I jumped back into the train as the doors started to close.

  I did this at every other station, felt pretty sure I wasn’t being tailed. We went under a tunnel. My ears popped. And four stations later I reached my stop. I did my on and off number. It seemed to me a guy stuck his head out in the car next to mine. When the doors started to close and I made like I was jumping back in, I saw this guy pull in his head. All I could see was the back of a brown pork-pie hat and when the train went by I had a flash of the hat again—with a fancy red feather stuck in the band. It could have been my imagination.

  Going up the steps I came out on an area looking like many small cities in the south, rows of private houses and a few stores, most of the streets lined with trees.

  Afraid to ask, I walked in circles until I found the avenue I was looking for. I got my direction and started walking. They weren’t kidding, Brooklyn is big. A half hour later I was still walking, my feet sore and all of me dead tired. My cut shoe seemed ready to fall apart. I stopped at a trash can and poked around until I found some string. I bound the shoe together across the instep and looked up to see a horse-faced woman staring down her big nose at me and making tsk, tsk noises. The string worked okay. I walked for another half hour, stopping to look into store windows, or turning down quiet side streets. I didn’t see anybody following me. I’d be an easy make with my size and torn clothing.

  It was almost six and starting to get dark when I passed another subway station and realized if I’d been able to ask I would have saved myself all the walking. Of course there were buses passing me all the time, going up and down the avenue, which didn’t help my tired feeling. I was killing myself for a lousy fifteen cents. Even in the old days I’d never been this broke.

  I finally reached Hal’s street. I walked down it and looked at the numbers, knew I wasn’t more than a block away from the house. To be on the smart side I went back to the avenue and up another block. And then I got sick because I saw a stocky fellow walking behind me, a red feather in his hat! I stopped to glance at a grocery window and he went by me, and damn if he didn’t stop to stare into a hardware window. I walked slowly by him and casually glanced around. There he was, following me.

  When we reached the corner I stopped, pretended I was hunting for something in my pockets. Of course he couldn’t simply stop and stand there, so he turned into this empty side street, walked slowly ahead of me. I followed him, waiting to see what he’d do now.

  He walked along as if he didn’t know I was there and when we started to pass a modest apartment house, he suddenly ducked down the service entrance. I jumped after him, determined to settle one badge’s hash!

  We were in a narrow concrete alleyway, dimly lit by a single bulb. He half turned as I rushed him, dropped when I clubbed the side of his head with my fist. He crumpled into an odd heap, legs corkscrewing under him. Then he fell forward on his face, the hat with the loud feather rolling away. I quickly frisked him. He was clean. I took out his wallet. There were three singles and some identification cards. One said he was a member of a hospitalization group. Another card said he was certified to operate an oil burner. The last identification card stated he was the superintendent of a building. For a moment I was puzzled, then with a horrible sickened feeling I read the address on the card. I ran out to the sidewalk—saw the same street number on the apartment building.

  If my shoe wasn’t busted I would have sprinted. I walked as fast as I could, heading back toward Hal’s street. Several thoughts were thundering around in my sore head. The guy was okay, or would be in a few minutes. I’d dropped the wallet at his feet so they couldn’t arrest me for robbery. But was suspicion driving me crazy? I’d flattened a harmless janitor minding his own business, all because he wore a colored feather in his hat band!

  Lord, if anybody had seen me, if the cops ever bagged me, they’d let me have the book, if I didn’t land in a padded cell. I’d deserve it. Who would believe my story? Not even me! No wonder Rose had been flipping with fright: suspicion and caution can be harder on your nerves than dope.

  But there was little chance the super saw me, would be able to identify me, so I was in the clear. But if I was caught…damn! Why had I insisted upon coming to the States? How much of a clown can one guy be?

  CHAPTER VIII

  Hal’s house was a shingle and brick job with big picture windows, neat and new, like all the other houses on the block. The street seemed empty and, making as sure as I could that I wasn’t seen, I quickly ran up the few steps. For the first time I noticed it was a two family house. I rang the bell with ANDERSON above it, and didn’t hear a sound.

  A man turned into the street from the avenue. I pressed the bell again. No sound. I had to get off the street but fast. I tried the door. It was open. Stepping into a two-by-four hall I was confronted with two doors. I cl
everly pushed open the door which had a mat with a large “A” before it, walked up a sharp flight of stairs to another door. I knocked. A child’s voice said, “My goodness, you know it’s open, Mommy.”

  Opening the door I saw a little girl of about five with long colt legs standing naked in the middle of a large and shabby living room. There were many paintings on the walls, a floor-to-ceiling bookcase, a sewing machine, a typewriter. And in one corner a big chair in the process of being reupholstered. Part of it was down to the frame with chisels and planes and a pot of glue beside it. It was a large, low-ceilinged room, shabby only because of the beating the modernistic furniture had taken—from the little girl, probably. I expected the kid to yell when she saw me, instead she asked calmly, “Are you the company Mommy is expecting?” She had a cute pixy face.

  “I hope so. Where is your mother?”

  “Close your eyes.”

  “Why?”

  “My goodness, you should know boys must not look at girls without their clothes on. I am ready to take my bath. You close your eyes.”

  I shut my eyes. “Where’s your mother, honey?”

  “Got ya covered!” a shrill voice at my right said. I jumped and my heart seemed to explode. I spun around to see a boy of about seven standing behind the couch with a toy machine gun in his hands. I gave him a sickly grin. He looked so much like Hal it was startling. He said, “Gave you a scare, didn’t I?”

  “Yeah. Where…?”

  “Please close your eyes until I get into the bathroom,” the girl said.

  I turned away from her and faced the boy, who gave me a burst of sparks. The little girl said, “Your eyes are still open!”

  Shutting my eyes I told her, “Why don’t you go to the bathroom and stop talking?” I half opened my eyelids.

  “You are not my Daddy. I don’t have to do what you say,” she said.

  The boy gave her a burst. “You’d better be in the tub before Mama comes back, Bessie.”

  “You shut up, Francois. Mommy told you about pointing that gun at…”

  “You’d better call me Frank!” He advanced toward her with another burst of sparks, and with mock screams she ran into the bathroom and slammed the door. All the racket didn’t help my head. The boy came back and gave me a man-to-man grin, showing a couple of buck teeth. “Girls are a pain. Gee, I wish I had a face as tough as yours. Did you bring me any presents, Mickey?”

  “Well, I’m going to send you both presents in the mail. How did you know my name?”

  “Pop talks about you a lot. He has a picture of you as a boxer. Gee, I don’t know, can you send anything big through the mail? Like a wagon, or a sled? We almost had some snow the other day and I told…”

  Somebody was rushing up the stairs and we both turned to face a small, woman, racing into the room, she was young, her face serious and sort of fleshy, with big bright eyes, and wild dark hair cut close to her head. She was wearing old jeans spotted with paint and a blue sweatshirt. On second look she was fairly stocky.

  Holding out a small hand she said, “Ah, you have to be Mickey! I am Colette.”

  I shook her hand and she rattled off some French which I think meant she had about given me up, then added in English, “What took you so long? I was afraid you were lost. I went down to see if the bell is working. It is not. I stopped in to tell them downstairs. Ah, I was sure you had gone away after receiving no answer.” All her words came out in an eager rush.

  “Mister Johnny lives downstairs. He owns the house,” the boy said. “He has a real gun and he’s a police sergeant.”

  In French Colette told the boy it was bad manners to talk so much and to get ready for his bath. He said, “Aw, talk American, Mom,” and ran out of the room as she raised her hand.

  In my best Haitian French I said, “I’m pleased to meet you, Mrs.—Colette.” While I knew I couldn’t waste much time here, it was a relief to feel really welcome.

  “I shall call you Mickey because I have heard so much about you. Some place I have pictures of you and my Hal. Every time we see the horrible fights on television, Hal talks about you, wondering where you are. You made a big impression on him.”

  “Yeah, that’s good,” I said with a foolish grin. Since she was talking English I gave up my bastard French. That I’d ever made any sort of impression on Hal was news to me. “I hate to—that is, I’m in a hurry, so…”

  Her eyes took in my torn shoe, my ripped clothing and she asked calmly, “What happened to you?”

  Her calmness did it, helped me type her. Colette was one of those take-charge babes, the sweet and very efficient gal who can do everything. That kind would drive me to drink, but I suppose if you only saw her one week out of five, or whatever Hal’s schedule was, it wasn’t too bad. I said, “The question is, what hasn’t happened to me. I’ve been in a series of accidents ever since I hit New York this morning. I’m the original accident-prone slob. I won’t even bother telling you about them, you’d only think me a liar. The main point is, I lost my wallet and every cent I had. Can you lend me about ten bucks? I’ll return it by mail in a few days.”

  “Of course. But take off your coat and rest. You look tired. I shall fix you some food.”

  “That would be great, but I’m in a big rush. I have to make a phone call right away, so if you’ll give me the money…”

  “Use our phone,” she said, pointing to it.

  “No, I think it best not to.”

  “Ah, so it is like that.” She looked at me with renewed interest, as if I was another problem for her to solve.

  “Nope, it isn’t anything crooked. The real trouble is I don’t know what it’s all about. If you’ll let me have the money, I’ll be on my high horse.”

  “You can’t go out like this. Your shoes. I think you wear about the same size as Hal. At least come and see if a pair of his will fit you.”

  The little girl opened the bathroom door wearing a pink robe. Colette said, “You are to watch TV in your room and not to disturb us. Tell Francois. Both are to stay in your room.”

  The kid nodded without saying a word and marched off. Colette told me, “Please excuse the state of our house. With my painting and the children, I have little time for household work.”

  “All those paintings on the wall yours?”

  “But of course. You like them?”

  “Sure.”

  “The house is a mess. We are fixing the chairs.”

  “I didn’t know Hal was so handy with wood,” I said, following her into the bedroom.

  She laughed. “He is all thumbs. I do that myself. So much to do. We couldn’t have two boys or two girls. Soon we will need an extra room and rents are terrible. Maybe when we move, I shall be able to have a studio of my own. Here, sit on the bed and try these on.”

  The bedroom was more of this modern furniture that looked as if it would stick you any second. I sat on a hassock and opened my coat. I suppose we both wore startled expressions. She was staring at the blood on my neck and I was staring at a framed photo of several teenage boys and girls, all wearing armbands and holding machine guns. The pig-tailed gal with the burp gun cradled in her arms was Colette.

  She dropped a pair of Hal’s shoes she’d taken from the closet and came running over. “You are hurt!”

  “Hit my head in falling,” I said, still staring at the wall photo. “Were those real guns?”

  “We must…” She turned and followed my eyes to the picture. “Oh, that, I was with the Maquis—the French underground—during the war. Off with your coat. And your shirt.”

  “Don’t bother. It’s merely a bruise.”

  “Nonsense. I will fix it. I teach First-Aid to the mothers at the school. Undress!”

  I peeled off my things, stripped down to my pants at her urging. She said, “You are also big and strong, like my man. Wait, I will get the boy from the bathroom. You are certain you do not need a doctor?”

  “No.”

  “One second, then.”

 
; She dashed out of the bedroom and I went over and examined the picture. You got the feeling this wasn’t any posed shot: these kids had used the guns.

  Colette called to me and I passed the boy, now in a neat blue robe, and he asked, “Do you have to take a bath every night, too?”

  I winked and he said, “You can float my atomic submarine, if you like.”

  Colette had me bending over the tub while she expertly cleaned the bump on my head, even shaving some of the hair away. Then I sat on the John as she took off my shoes and socks, taped the blisters my torn shoe had caused. All this attention was embarrassing.

  While I washed, Colette brought in shoes, socks, an old car coat, a heavy shirt, and a pair of slacks. Even the shoes fitted and when I dressed I looked my old self. I topped things by using Hal’s razor for a fast shave. When I stepped out of the bathroom she clapped her hands. “You look like the new man! Here is some brandy and I will make supper…”

  “I have to leave, make that call,” I said, sipping the brandy slowly. It was rich and smooth.

  “I forget, here is money. Enough?” She pulled four five dollar bills from her pants pocket.

  “Swell. I will send the money and the clothes…”

  “It is of no matter. Are you sure you are not in real trouble? You can sleep on the couch for a few days if you like, wait until Hal comes home.”

  The brandy was a tonic and I felt almost good again. “No. And thanks—for everything. I’m not in real trouble. I became a busybody, involved in trying to find a sour ball, it seems.” I suppose what really made me feel so good was the twenty bucks. There wasn’t anything to stop me from reaching Rose. I was done, forever, playing detective. I could even joke about it now.

  “Comment?”

  “A kind of inside joke. I wanted to find a clown named Sowor. A German. Sounds like sauerkraut. But it turned out he’s dead. Really a crazy story—there’s some Oriental chick, Me-Lucy-ah, also in…”

  “She is a girl?”