The Black Lizard Big Book of Pulps

by Otto Penzler

  She nodded, looked up without interest. When the music started they glided out to the floor. She was as tall almost as Flaherty, with blonde, short-clipped hair, and a heavy sensuous mouth. Her eyes were dark blue, thick-lidded.

  They danced on without speaking. When the number was over, Flaherty said: “Thanks. You can step, sweetheart. Have the next?”

  She responded with a faint shrug of her bared shoulders. The lights dimmed down and a young man in the band laid aside his instrument, began to croon in a sleepy voice through a small megaphone.

  She had a firm, supple curved body. She kept her head turned, eyes over his shoulder. He shifted, tightened his hold.

  “You’re nice,” he said. “Me, I think so. Too nice to waste your time on greaseballs.”

  She didn’t say anything for a moment; then she spoke from the side of her mouth, not turning her head. “Greaseballs?” she said.

  “Sure,” said Flaherty. “You know who I mean. The little ginny I saw you dancing with last night.”

  Her face swung up to his, whiffing with it a cheap reek of perfume across his nostrils. There was a faint mocking gleam under her mascaraed lashes.

  “I was not here last night.” Her voice was low, husky, with a thin blur of accent.

  Flaherty laughed. “Musta been the night before. I see you with him a lot. Steady?”

  She shrugged, humming the song the band played, deep in her throat.

  “I get breaks like that,” Flaherty said. “Any chance of ditchin’ him for dinner tonight?”

  “No,” she said. “I got a sick mother.”

  “I know the song,” Flaherty answered. “The old man ain’t so well and you’re keepin’ the kid sister in a convent. All right, girlie; I’ll see you again.”

  When the music was over he let her go back to her seat. She was meeting someone, probably; he’d have to take a chance on that being Johnny Greco. He resigned himself to wait, looking at his watch. Twenty minutes past ten; Mike’s call would be due now.

  He walked out to the anteroom and smoked a cigarette. When the phone in the booth tinkled he went across and into it before the pimply faced man could turn.

  “Hello,” he said.

  “Flaherty?” Under Mike Martin’s furred voice pulsed a ripple of excitement. “Better get out here quick, boy. Someone laid a pineapple in Devine’s car. The chauffeur and him was blown to hell not five minutes ago.”

  Flaherty got a taxi at the corner and stared tense-eyed into the darkness during the ten-minute ride. What was coming off? Johnny Greco was no fool; neither was Jigger Burns. Bumping a guy was a dough job—they weren’t in it for fun. Devine hadn’t come through—they didn’t give him time. Force of example, so that the next heavy man they touched wouldn’t squawk? That, maybe. He wondered what Mike had seen.

  The cab swung into the quiet darkness of Magnolia Avenue. Three blocks farther on, a knot of people huddled together under the pale glint of a street lamp. Lights gleamed from houses all about; hastily clad people grouped in doorways, called to each other in shrill tones from window to window.

  Flaherty got out and paid the driver. “Wait ten minutes,” he said.

  Devine’s house was set back from the road on a low terrace. Flaherty saw it as a large three-story building, with a curve of graveled driveway leading whitely up across the dark lawn. A thick hedge banked it on the street side; when Flaherty cut in through this on the driveway a uniformed figure stepped out before him. He was fishing for his badge when Mike Martin came out from the shadows.

  “All right, Smith,” he said. “Get the crowd away. It’s up here, Flaherty.”

  They went up in silence to the top of the hill. Lights poured from the ground-floor windows, sending a flood of illumination across grass and shrubbery. Ragged curtain ends fluttered out through the smashed panes; the stoop to the porch sagged drunkenly, half of it toppled on its side and resting on the earth. The porch itself had been a Colonial affair, tall, white, with slim pillars and a curved portico. Three of the pillars were snapped off in the center, and at the right end a segment of roof hung down like a misshapen curtain.

  The car squatted before the house, a foot away from the stoop. In the light it was a twisted and charred mass of grayish metal. The top was blown off, and fragments of glass from its windows littered the ground with little silver shreds of light. At the side nearest Flaherty the metal warped outward in a great hole.

  “It’s a morgue job,” said Mike. “You couldn’t identify either of them with a microscope.”

  Flaherty bent and looked inside. When he straightened, his face was grayish. “Cripes!” he said.

  “Yes,” said Mike. “Messy, hah?”

  “Did you see it go up?”

  Mike spat and nodded. “We’d just got here,” he said. “I grabbed Smith at the station and we came out in the flivver. I didn’t see anybody in the street. I told Smith to wait and crossed over. Then I saw a little guy in a top hat come down the stoop and get into the car.”

  Flaherty scowled at his feet. “Devine,” he said. “I thought the damn’ fool would know enough to stick inside.”

  “I heard the starter begin to purr—just for a second. Then I felt the pineapple bust loose. I didn’t see anything—it slammed me back through the bushes like I was a laundry bag. When I got up here it was all over.”

  Flaherty lit a cigarette and tossed the match in the grass. For a second the flame scooped his lean, sharp face out of the shadow.

  “They might have had it wired to the motor. But then why the hell didn’t it blast out comin’ from the garage? What was the chauffeur doin’? Did he leave the bus at all after bringin’ it out?”

  “I don’t know,” Mike answered. “I haven’t had time to talk to the servants. They’re so scared they’re blubberin’. They got an English butler in there you should see, Flaherty. Gawd! He’ll give the laundry a job this week.”

  “See what the chauffeur was doin’.” Flaherty said. “You might get a tip questionin’ the people around here. I’m goin’ back for Johnny Greco and the Jigger. This is where the nitro came in, Mike.”

  Blocks distant a siren screamed. Flaherty tossed aside his cigarette.

  “That’s probably the old man. Devine was a big shot in this burg; he’ll wanta know how come. I’ll leave you get the Congrats, Mike. So-long. I’ll phone you at headquarters later.”

  Mike cursed bitterly. “You yella——” he said. “The old man will save some for you. I’ll see to that.”

  At the corner Flaherty’s taxi swerved to avoid the police car, then straightened out along Magnolia Avenue. They made good time; it was ten minutes past eleven by Flaherty’s watch when they pulled up before the Esplanade.

  The crowd inside was thicker, gayer, noisier. Flaherty sifted through the mob, passed to the anteroom, came back to the dance-floor. The blonde was nowhere in sight. He went out to the gate; to the pimply faced man on duty he said: “Where’d the tall blonde go? That Polack girl-”

  The man shrugged. “She left ten minutes ago.”

  Flaherty cursed. “Where does she live?” he snapped.

  “I’m not runnin’ that kind of place,” pimply face said. Behind the lenses his eyes were small and guarded. “There’s plenty of blondes in there, guy.”

  Flaherty yanked him around; he said, hard-eyed: “Where does she live?”

  Pimply face licked his lips uncertainly and then shot out his jaw. “What you lookin’ for, guy? Trouble? I told you—”

  “Yeh,” said Flaherty. “I heard you the first time. I guess you ain’t got the records. You’re in a spot, fella. You know the regulations on joints like this.”

  Pimply face tried to hold his stare and failed. He said sullenly: “Sure I got the records. Wait a minute. I’ll see.”

  He went across to the window, spoke to the girl inside, and came back with a small white filing slip in his hand. “Anna Brinski—213 Ailing-ton Place,” he said, raising his eyes furtively to Flaherty’s. “What’s the trou
ble? Any—”

  Flaherty let his words drift out without answering. He took the stairs three at a step and turned left at the door. Four blocks over, Ailing-ton Place emptied into the avenue: a narrow, darkly lit thoroughfare, with two parallel rows of cheap brownstone tenements leading down. He found 213 by counting off six houses from the corner; the numbers over the door, faded by time and weather, were indistinguishable in the gloom.

  In the vestibule he struck a match, passing the flame over the bells. He read near the end: Anna Brinski, Apt. 43. The door swung back at his touch, admitting him to a narrow hall, palely lit.

  He went up on his toes, two steps at a time, without sound. A radio moaned harshly in one of the flats, squawked with a sudden inrush of static as he passed; he caught fragments of voices, snores, the lingering thick odor of fried fish.

  At the top of the flight a single bulb glowed weakly, shedding a wan light over the apartment doors. There were six on each floor; the one numbered three was in an angle near the front. When he got to the fourth landing Flaherty stopped and listened; he could hear nothing but the high querulous voice of a drunken woman below.

  His footsteps patted on the oilcloth, slid off into the darkness with low echoes. He rapped sharply, twice, on the door of 43—there was no bell.

  After a minute of quietness someone said inside: “Who’s there?”

  Flaherty said hoarsely: “Anna? Johnny sent me over. He can’t meet you tonight. He’s bein’ tailed.”

  She said something short, bitterly. Flaherty grinned. When the door opened a crack he laid his body against it and pushed.

  The room inside was brightly lit. There was a day-bed at one end, not yet made up, a messy dressing-table across from it, a tall floor-lamp with a torn shade near the window. The air was drenched with the brassy smell of burnt out cigarettes. Clothes littered the couch, poured over on to the floor; an open suitcase lay on the small center-table.

  “So you’re goin’ away,” said Flaherty, leaning against the door. “You shoulda let me know, Anna.”

  Her hair was down, stuck with curlers; she was wearing a sleazy dressing-gown. She smiled softly, but her eyes kept the same.

  “The cheap bull,” she said. “Where do you think?”

  “No fun,” said Flaherty. “I’m asking, Anna.”

  He locked the door behind him and went across to the hall at one end that led into the tiny kitchenette and bath. Both were empty.

  He grinned coming back. “So Joey Helton squeaked to you after all. We’ll have to mark him up a point.”

  She sat down on the couch and picked a cigarette from the heavy bronze smoking-stand at the side. “What do you want?” she said.

  “Nothin’ much,” said Flaherty. “Where were you gonna meet Johnny Greco?”

  She shrugged. Her gown slipped down and she pulled it up, lazily, with one hand. “I don’t know him—this Johnny.”

  Flaherty’s eyes narrowed. “You’re wastin’ your time on that stuff, sister. Where were you to meet him?”

  She stared down at the cigarette in her hand without answering. Flaherty turned away from her and walked over to the suitcase. He thumbed through the flap in the top. He picked up the garments one by one, felt them through, dropped them to the floor. Her eyes changed color, darkened, in the cone of light from the lamp. She spat out something that Flaherty couldn’t understand.

  He stared at her for a second. “Don’t say it in English,” he said. “I’m the kind of guy that hasn’t got any chivalry.”

  When the bag was empty he went over to the couch and reached down for the pocket-book she had tried to hide with her back. As he bent for it she was on him like a tigress, without warning. He snapped his elbow up under her chin, felt the jarring click of teeth coming together as her knee shot up viciously to his stomach, stabbing him with pain. He grabbed her wrist; his grasp tightened, twisted until she moaned suddenly and went soft in his arms. He dropped her roughly to the couch and picked up the bag.

  “Any more?” he asked.

  She lay staring up at him, her eyes blazing. After a minute Flaherty turned his attention to the bag. Two folded pink strips of paper were on top; he shook them out, dropping his eyes along the lines. “Los Angeles!” He whistled. “Gettin’ out far, weren’t you? The other one for Johnny—” He put them in his pocket. “Get dressed, kid; I’m gonna take you for a little ride downtown. I know a couple of guys there that have the knack of getting’ questions answered.”

  She sat up sullenly, rubbing her wrists. He tossed her a dress from the heap and fished in his pockets for his cigarettes. He was taking them out when knuckles rapped quickly on the door.

  Half into the dress she stopped, looked up. Her mouth opened. Flaherty’s grasp yanked her head back in an instant.

  “Quiet,” he said softly. “It’ll be better for you later, Anna.”

  The knuckles rapped again. In two steps Flaherty was by the door, swinging it back, hidden as it came. Anna stood motionless by the couch.

  A tall, gray-clad man entered, his head jerking forward as he saw her. He spoke quickly, without breath. “Anna! It’s all set. I—”

  He might have heard Flaherty breathe. In the quick twist of his head under a lowered hat brim Flaherty could see nothing but lips and a sharp chin. He said, pushing the door to behind him: “Drop it, guy.” The other snarled, his eyes wavering for an instant to Anna.

  “You dirty little—”

  Flaherty shot as the man’s gun came out, dropping him limply, suddenly, like a pricked balloon. The short, sharp crash of the gun echoed back from the walls to a beating silence. Flaherty heard faintly the drunken woman still quarreling as he bent over the body.

  “You’ve killed him,” said Anna. Her voice was quiet enough. She stood by the bronze stand, the cigarette in her fingers drifting smoke lazily across her face.

  Flaherty said nothing. He gripped the man’s shoulders and swung him around back to Anna for a brief moment. At the sound of her rush behind him he straightened too late. On one knee as he brought the gun up he saw the light glinting dully on the edge of the bronze base. Then it crashed down in a vicious arc, before the dark glitter of her eyes. Flaherty fell forward across the dead man, his gun dropping from his hand, his mind whirling and lost in red-streaked confusion.

  He was pulled back to consciousness slowly by a throbbing agony over his left ear. When he opened his eyes the light pierced them like tiny knives driving into his skull. He pushed the body away from him, got to his knees, his feet, stood swaying unsteadily as he looked around.

  The lights in the room were still lit, but it was very quiet. Anna, of course, was gone. He went out to the kitchen and put his head under the faucet, letting the water pour coldly over his cheek. The skin was unbroken, but there was a lump that felt like an apple where the blow had landed.

  After a minute he felt better; he dried off his face and returned to the living-room, looking at his watch. Quarter past twelve. He hadn’t been out long; half hour maybe—not more. He gripped the dead body and swung it over on its back.

  He found himself looking at the thin, pale face of Barrett, the banker’s secretary. There was a hole just over the bridge of his nose. Flaherty squatted on the floor, resting his body on his clenched hands. Barrett!

  It came clearer to him in a while. Barrett and Anna—the two of them had framed it from the start. Then where did Johnny Greco and the Jigger come in? Had Anna been using Barrett all the time, ready to ring in the other two for the big prize?

  He cursed his aching head. This mixed it up worse than ever. If Barrett was the brains he wouldn’t have stood for the blow-up—not without the money. He’d be in a game like this once, for big stakes—but he wasn’t the kind to risk it as a steady racket. He hadn’t the guts. Then why had Devine been killed without a chance to get the money?

  Flaherty couldn’t figure it. Unless there was something more, something in back, something he hadn’t come upon— He pushed back the dead man’s coat and turned o
ut his pockets. A wallet, dark leather, well used; a few bills, a letter, some cards; a slip of white paper, without inscription, marked in hasty handwriting— 1934. That was all.

  He put the paper in his pocket, picked up the gun, and rose. He closed the door behind him, leaving the lights still lit and the dead eyes of Barrett staring glassily at the ceiling. The hall was pretty quiet as he descended. He wondered if anyone had heard the shot. Taken it for backfire if they had; it wouldn’t be healthy to meddle in a joint like this.

  He turned left on the pavement and headed for the avenue, grateful for the cool night air that swept over his forehead. He had almost reached the corner when a car turned in. It raced along smoothly, slowed as it passed him. He had an instant’s warning in the split-second glitter of steel from the seat.

  At his side a row of ashcans flanked the dark space of an area. He dropped to the ground, rolled over, heard the ting of the bullets, sharp and vicious, as they hit the metal cans. He turned quickly in the narrow space, fired twice. The car flashed under the lamps like a black monster, spitting four more stabs of orange from its side before it rounded the corner at the far end and roared away.

  Windows slammed up and a man’s voice shouted hoarsely. Flaherty rose from his shelter, brushing his pants carefully. It was getting hot now. They’d come back for him, sure enough; if he’d been out five minutes longer, there’d be two stiffs up there now instead of one. Why? What was coming off, so important that they had to get him out of the way?

  It was Anna, of course. She was the only one who knew where he was. She had told Johnny, and he came back to finish the job. The game wasn’t over yet, then. And whatever was going to happen they were afraid he would spoil—they thought that somehow, somewhere he’d gotten a tip. What the hell could it be?

  It worried Flaherty. Did they take him for a sucker, potting at him like that? What was under his double-blanked eyes that he couldn’t see?