by Otto Penzler
Farther down the avenue there was an all-night drug-store. Flaherty went in and called headquarters; after a minute he was connected with Mike Martin.
He said: “Meet me at the corner of Lynch and Holland as soon as you can make it. Things are popping, Mike.”
Outside again he waited in the darkened entrance of a jewelry store. Lynch Street, a thoroughfare of office buildings and stockbrokers’ firms, stretched dark and silent before him, its blackness interspersed by scattered yellow pools from street lamps. The black bulk of Devine’s bank squatted back from the pavement a half block away. Flaherty lit a cigarette and scowled at it. Things had moved fast in ten hours. Now—
A dull monstrous boom, a roll of thunder in a confined space, crashed in one wave down the avenue. A golden flare burst up and expired in an instant behind the glass doors of the Commercial bank.
Flaherty raced up the street, bringing his gun loose. A block away he heard the shrill pipe of a police whistle, and closer at hand the rasping squeal of car brakes. He swung around to see Mike Martin hop off a taxi running-board and rush to him across the sidewalk.
“Take the front,” snapped Flaherty. “Don’t go in. They’ve not had time to scatter.”
He raced around the side of the building over the grass plot that rimmed it. A door gaped open in the rear, with the red bulb of a night-light on top. In its glow Flaherty saw that the yard, rimmed by a high stone fence in back, was empty. They had to get out the front way then, or around by the grass plot. And they couldn’t have, yet. They were bottled.
He got inside, keeping to the shadows. A heavy puff of smoke was rising slowly from the center of the building’s long room; as he advanced cautiously it thinned, faded slowly against the high stone ceiling. Between the bookkeepers’ desks in back and the glass partitioned cashiers’ cages in front there was a wide, iron-gated alcove. The gate was open now, with the sprawled figure of a man before it.
Flaherty was motionless in the shadow, listening. He could hear nothing. Queer, this— They must have known the explosion would be heard, must have known—
After an irresolute moment he stepped over the dead man and into the lighted alcove, automatic ready before him. The huge steel door of the vault was flung outward against the wall, the center of it torn and twisted like paper by the charge. Flaherty gave it a glance and then went back to the watchman, rolling him over. An old, wizened face, not much expression now, a bullet hole through the back of his head. Flaherty got up and went softly to the back door.
Mike stood in the shadows outside, dropping his raised arm when he saw Flaherty.
“The man on beat came up. I left him at the front. See anything, Flaherty?”
Flaherty took a second before answering. “The watchman’s stiff, Mike. He’s been dead at least an hour. And the vault’s been cleaned of cash.”
“Hell,” said Mike. “They couldn’t have cleaned it; they didn’t have time.”
“No,” said Flaherty. “They didn’t have time, Mike—that’s the funny part.”
After a second he continued: “We haven’t figured the thing right from the start. There’s something in back of this we’re not even sniffing. It don’t hang together the way it is. If they wanted to rob the bank what did they kill Devine for? He wasn’t in the way.”
“I don’t get you,” said Mike. “It’s open and shut to me. They bump off Devine but don’t get the money. All right—they figure they’re in and they might as well get somethin’ out of it, so they lam back here and blow the vault. Jigger’s opened ones a lot tougher than this cheesebox.”
Flaherty said: “That’s one way, Mike. But why did they clean the vault first and then blow it? That’s the only answer—we both know they didn’t have time after the charge went off. A guy would do that just for one reason; to make it look—” He stopped. After a breath he said: “Oh!” softly, and whistled.
Mike moved restlessly. “What the hell you getting’ at?”
“I was just wonderin’,” said Flaherty, “how tall Jigger Burns is.”
“He’s a little guy. Not much over five five.”
Flaherty grunted. “It’s beginnin’ to fit.” From his upper vest pocket he took a small slip of paper and held it out to Mike. After a minute Mike handed it back. “1934? Don’t mean nothin’ to me.”
Flaherty rapped out briefly the events of the night. When he had finished Mike said: “The secretary, hah? I’ll be double damned.”
“We ain’t got much time. What do you think that number means?”
Mike pushed back his hat. “A street number, d’ye think—”
“Yeh,” said Flaherty, “only there ain’t a street name on it. It might be a post-office box only there ain’t no key. Maybe it’s next year.”
Mike stirred uneasily. “Lay off,” he said. “Some day, honest to gawd, I’m gonna lay you like a rug.”
Flaherty said: “I found it on Barrett’s body. What’s he carryin’ it around for? Because it’s something important—something he mustn’t forget. Take it that way. Then he probably got to meet someone there tonight—they haven’t much time—at 1934. It wouldn’t be a street number; he’d know the house, and wouldn’t hafta mark the number down on paper. You can’t run out and hire a house in the middle of the night. Besides the getaway has to be fast, so it would be somethin’ they could hire any time and leave when they wanted. What’s left? A hotel room?”
“I was gonna say it,” Mike answered. “If it’s a hotel there’s only two in town high enough for a number like that: The Sherman and the Barrisford.“
Flaherty crushed the slip in his pocket. “There’ll be a squad along any minute. Stay till they slow, Mike. Let them go through the place—they won’t find anything. Then hop over to the Sherman; that’s the nearest and busiest. The clerk’ll know if I’m upstairs. If I’m not, try the Barrisford.“
He left Mike and walked swiftly to the corner after a word to the policeman in front. Three blocks up and two over he entered the lobby of the hotel Sherman. From the restaurant in back, swift syncopated strains of dance music floated out, but the lobby itself was almost deserted.
The clerk at the desk was a slight, superior-looking person with a pale face and exquisite hands. When Flaherty flashed the badge his lower lip dropped. He said: “Oh—oh! Really, I hope—”
Flaherty fumbled for the paper. “You have nineteen floors, haven’t you?”
The clerk looked relieved. “No,” he said. “There are only eighteen. Of course—”
Flaherty stopped searching; he cursed and chewed his lip while the little man eyed him apprehensively. “How tail’s the Barrisford?” he snapped.
“Sixteen, I believe. I know we’re the biggest in town. Eight hundred rooms—”
Flaherty got out the paper and looked again. No mistake: 1934. That settled that. Telephone number—safe deposit vault, maybe? But how—
The clerk cleared his throat nervously. “It’s funny,” he said. “I don’t know whether you— You see, we have to be careful, there are so many superstitious people. We haven’t a floor numbered thirteen—we skipped it. Thirteen is fourteen and so on. We really have only eighteen floors though our room numbers run up to nineteen. Now if you—”
Flaherty, turning away, whirled back. “Who’s in 1934? Get it quick. I want the key.”
The clerk jumped at his voice. He came back from the inner office holding a key, his eyes worried.
“A gentleman registered this evening for that room—a Mr. Walker. Is there anything wrong? I can’t let you have this without our man—”
Flaherty reached over and grabbed the key. “Who’s your house dick—Gilmour? Send him up as soon as you locate him. Tell him to be careful—it won’t be a picnic. There’ll be shooting.”
He headed across the lobby while the clerk said: “Oh—oh,” faintly.
At the top floor Flaherty left the elevator and stepped into a long red carpeted corridor, empty and brightly lit. He looked at the room numbers and swung to his
left.
Nineteen thirty-four was near the end of the hall. He stood outside, listening. No sound … He fitted the key in the lock and twisted the knob an inch at a time, softly. A tiny line of blackness appeared at the crack and Flaherty bent double, slipped through in a flash, silently.
Darkness netted him in, diffused faintly by two windows at the far side. He made out the dim white splotch of a bed to his right—nothing more in the light-blurred focus of his gaze. Nothing happened. He stood motionless an instant, surprised and uneasy, before turning to the wall for the light switch.
The faintest flicker of darkness moved from his left—in the same instant he felt a thin rush of air, and something hard, sharp-edged, crashed viciously into his wrist, knocking his gun to the floor. He dropped, feeling for it, as the lights overhead snapped on. A woman’s leg flicked past his hand, kicking the revolver across the rug. Someone said in a soft, oily voice: “Hold it, Flaherty.”
Flaherty got up slowly to his knees, his lips pressed tight against the pain in his wrist. There were three people in the room: Anna, behind him and to his left, Johnny the Greek near the door, automatic in hand, and a slender small man in a chair, bound to it and gagged.
Johnny’s face, edged with a bluish bristle of beard, twisted in a leer. “Smart guy, Flaherty. Too bad we was expectin’ you. Next time you’re in a lobby look around. There’s telephones.”
“I shoulda thought of a lookout,” said Flaherty. “But this don’t help you, Johnny; I got the joint tied up in a knot. The outside’s lousy with cops.”
Johnny sneered. “Sez you. That stuff don’t go, dick—you came into the lobby alone. Your pals’ll be along, but that’ll be too late to do you any good. We’re about through here.” His eyes flickered to Anna. “Behind him, kid.” To Flaherty he said: “Get over to that chair, snappy.”
Flaherty went over slowly and sat down, watching his face. There wasn’t a chance. Johnny stared at him through narrow lids, his eyes small and hard like balls of black glass. Killer’s eyes …
“I’ll have to get some towels,” Anna said. “They’ll do for his arms.” She moved back of him towards the bathroom.
The little man made sounds under his gag. Flaherty looked at him and saw a large head with blond, oddly streaked hair, pale eyes, clean shaven upper lip.
“What you want?” snarled Johnny. The sounds continued. He dropped one hand and loosened the gag. “Spit it quick, fella.”
The little man breathed hoarsely once or twice before speaking. He looked at Flaherty and quickly away. His words were rapid, imploring.
“You’ve got the money—give me a chance to get free. I’ll leave you downstairs. If he knows who I am—”
“I know you’re Conrad Devine,” said Flaherty. He was stalling for time. Where the hell were Gilmour and Mike Martin? If he could keep them here five minutes— “You shaved off your mustache and blondined your hair—not a very good job, but good enough to fool anybody who thought you were dead. And who wouldn’t?”
The little man snarled savagely; he said to Johnny: “You see?”
“Sure,” said Flaherty. “Your bank was on the rocks and you didn’t have a nickel to save it. You thought you’d get what you could, so you framed this little racket with Barrett. The fact that you two birds got where you did in a bank is a laugh.
“Barrett knew Anna through going to the dance hall, and she got you in with Jigger Burns. You let Jigger in on it for a cut—you needed him for the bombs. You figured everything was as safe as Gibraltar—
“When I phoned tonight you made out you were scared, asked me to come right out. You cooked up some story for Jigger Burns—you were about the same size—and sent him out to your car when you saw the police flivver arrive. Fitted in one of your top hats, I was supposed to recognize your figger—I’d be too far away to see the face—watch you blown to hell, and give you a perfect alibi. Even the cops wouldn’t be dumb enough to suspect a dead man.
“You mentioned Jigger to me at your office so I’d be lookin’ for him. That made everything hotsy-totsy: you’d be livin’ in another town with enough dough to last you the rest of your life, the police would be lookin’ for a guy that was in a thousand bits, and I’d be left holdin’ the bag. Yeh—”
Johnny said: “That ain’t such a bad idea, Flaherty. I like to see cops holdin’ the bag. We’ll give you a start, Devine—but no breaks, guy! Let him loose, Anna.”
There was a sudden quick flicker in Devine’s eyes, instantly hid. Flaherty seeing it, said nothing. Anna came over in a moment with the towels and knelt behind Flaherty, pressing his arms together.
Flaherty continued to talk, while Devine stretched himself with a long sigh and went over to the bed, watched carefully by Johnny.
“I got the lead at your bank,” Flaherty droned on. “The vault was blown after the money was taken. Why? To make it look like a strong-arm job. Whoever pulled it got in the back door with a key, murdered the watchman, and opened the vault with the combination. Then they set the time bomb and beat it. I got to thinkin’ about you then, Devine. You had the keys and knew the combinations. There was talk your bank was crackin’; the body in the car couldn’t be identified. You didn’t have any notes to show me— you were too smart to rib them yourself—”
“Shut up,” snarled Johnny. “Got him fast, Anna?”
Flaherty laughed. “And at the end they gypped you, at that. When you got the dough and came back here to lie low for a couple of days before headin’ out, the girl friend and Johnny fix you like a baby and take away the candy. Hell—”
The banker’s pale eyes were slits of ice. His lips were frozen in a wrenched smile. “You’re very clever,” he said.
Anna yanked the toweling tight. As she began to fasten the knot Flaherty flexed his arms, pushing her backward to the floor. Johnny came forward a step, not watching Devine, his eyes vicious. “Once more and I drop you, guy.”
Flaherty got it then, watching the set, pinched-in face of Devine as his hand dropped to his overcoat pocket. Johnny had frisked him; had he frisked the topcoat on the bed? The damn’ fool—Flaherty got his weight on his toes, ready to leap.
“Yeh,” said Johnny. “Be a good boy. You ought—”
Anna screamed suddenly, seeing the sudden bulge in the banker’s pocket.
“Johnny! He—”
Johnny whirled, opening his mouth. The shot came before he could speak. He gave a puffy, choked grunt, fell flatly to the floor.
At the report Flaherty flung himself face downward behind the bed. Johnny was on the other side, moaning, his gun a foot away from his clenched hand. Flaherty wriggled forward, stretched his arm, grabbed the butt as darkness fell at a click over the room.
There was a rush of feet in the hall and confused shouts. Someone lunged furiously at the door; Flaherty heard Mike Martin’s bull voice roaring.
Devine fired twice. The bullets dug splinters from the floor, flung them in Flaherty’s face. Flaherty didn’t shoot; he crouched back, watching the far wall.
In the darkness Anna kept screaming shrilly, terribly. There was a rustle of motion, a scraping, a sudden rush, before the pale square of the window on the far side was darkened by a slender figure. Flaherty could see it very clearly. He fired once.
The door to the hall crashed back, and a slit of light melted instantly into the greater brilliance of the ceiling bulbs. Mike was by the switch, covering the room. In the doorway stood Gilmour, the house detective, his fat face pale and flabby. “What the hell!” he said.
Flaherty got to his feet. “It’s all right,” he said. “The party’s over, fella.”
In the center of the room Anna was on her knees over Johnny, sobbing. The Greek didn’t seem badly hurt; he sat up and stripped off his bloody coat, cursing sullenly under Gilmour’s revolver.
On the other side a breeze from the open window puffed the curtains lightly past the figure of Devine that lay half across the sill. It didn’t move.
Flaherty went over and lif
ted it back from the fire-escape, then reached out and pulled in the yellow leather bag Devine had pushed before him. Under two shirts on top, crisp piles of greenbacks were stacked row on row to the bottom.
Flaherty grunted, caressed them a second with his long fingers. “What a haul,” he said. “And I’d have to be a copper.”
Mike Martin’s puffy red face showed over his shoulder. “What’s all the shootin’, Flaherty? Who the hell is that?”
“Ain’t you heard?” said Flaherty. “It’s Santa Claus.”
Mike cursed. “Honest to gawd,” he said, “some day, Flaherty, I’m gonna lay you like a rug.”
Stag Party
Charles G. Booth
ONCE AN ENORMOUSLY successful novelist and writer of pulp stories, Charles G. Booth (1896-1949) is a name largely forgotten today, his fiction generally unread, while the films with which he was involved have taken on cult status and more.
He won an Academy Award for writing the best original story of the spy thriller, The House on 92nd Street (1945), an early work of documentary realism. His novel Mr. Angel Comes Aboard was filmed as Johnny Angel in 1945, a year after publication, and he wrote the novel The General Died at Dawn, which was filmed with Gary Cooper in 1936.
Born in Manchester, England, he emigrated to Canada before moving to Los Angeles in 1922, eventually becoming a contract writer for 20th Century Fox.
As with much of his fiction, “Stag Party” has a strong sense of place and evokes its time wonderfully. The hero, preparing for a showdown with gangsters in an underworld-run nightclub, dresses in his dinner jacket so that he’ll look his best for the confrontation.
Originally published in the November 1933, issue of Black Mask, “Stag Party” is the first and longest of three novellas featuring McFee of the Blue Shield Detective Agency to be collected in one of the rarest private eye volumes of the 1940s, Murder Strikes Thrice (1946), published by the short-lived paperback publisher Bond.