by Otto Penzler
“What do you think about it, Beaver? You know something of police matters; that is, you’re friendly with a young woman who is friendly with— But perhaps I shouldn’t mention that in front of the sergeant. He’s so zealous, he might resent any possible leak from headquarters.”
Sergeant Ackley stood in front of Leith, clenching and unclenching his hands.
“Leith,” he said, “you got by this time by the skin of your eyeteeth. I almost had you. If it weren’t for making myself appear so damned ridiculous if the facts ever became public, I’d throw you in right now and take a chance on convicting you.”
Lester Leith said: “Well, sergeant, don’t let your personal feelings stand between you and your duty. Personally, I think it would be an awful mistake for you to do anything like that. In the first place, you couldn’t convict me; and in the second place, it would put you yourself in a very ridiculous light. To think that with all the facilities which the police had at their command, they couldn’t solve a case so simple that a rank amateur by merely reading a newspaper clipping— No, no, sergeant, it would never do. They’d laugh you out of office.”
Sergeant Ackley nodded to the two men. “Come on,” he said; “let’s go. Beaver, step this way. I want a word with you.
Sergeant Ackley led the undercover man into the soundproof closet where the telephone was kept.
“Beaver,” he said, “you’ve got to fix up a story to square yourself.”
“Great Scott, sergeant!” the undercover man exclaimed. “I can’t. He’s seen me working with you. He knows—”
“Now listen,” Sergeant Ackley interrupted. “We’ve spent a lot of money getting you planted on this job. With you here, we can keep track of what he’s doing. The very next time he tries anything, we’ll be certain to get him. But without you to keep us posted, he’ll laugh at us, flaunt his damned hijacking right in our faces, and get away with it. The man’s too diabolically clever to be caught by any ordinary methods.”
“I can’t help that,” the spy said doggedly. “I’ve shown myself in my true colors now, thanks to you.”
“What do you mean, thanks to me?” Sergeant Ackley demanded.
“You insisted that I accompany you.”
Sergeant Ackley’s face flushed with rage. “If you want to come right down to facts, Beaver,” he said, “you’re the one who’s responsible for this whole mess.”
“How do you mean I’m responsible for it?”
“I had the idea all along that those emeralds were in the monkey’s stomach. Then you got that brainstorm of yours that the nurse had stuck ‘em in the chewing gum, and damned if I didn’t let you sell me on the idea. I should have known better. You—”
“I thought that was your idea,” Beaver charged.
“Mine?” Sergeant Ackley’s eyes were round with surprise. “Why, don’t you remember telephoning me, Beaver, that—”
“Yes, and you said it was your idea.”
Sergeant Ackley said patronizingly: “You misunderstood me, Beaver. I told you that I’d already considered that possibility. That was all.”
The undercover man sighed.
“Now then,” Ackley went on, “you’ll have to make up for that mistake by devising some way of getting yourself back in Leith’s good graces.”
The big undercover man, his black eyes suddenly glittering, said. “O.K., I have an idea!”
“What is it?” Sergeant Ackley wanted to know.
“I could claim that / was under arrest; that you came here and pinched me first and then kept me with you all the time you were laying for him on the train and—”
“That’s fine,” Ackley said. “We’ll put that across.”
“But,” Beaver went on, “it won’t explain our conversation in the closet. You’ve spilled the beans now.”
“You’ll have to think up some explanation,” Sergeant Ackley said. “You thought up that other, now you can think up—”
“Of course,” Beaver said, “I could say that you’d called me in here and made me a proposition to spy on him and that I resented it.”
“Swell,” Sergeant Ackley said. “That’s exactly what we want. I knew we could think up something if we put our minds to it, Beaver.”
“Oh, we thought of this, did we?” Beaver asked.
“Certainly,” Sergeant Ackley said. “That is, I outlined to you what was required, and directed your thoughts in the proper channels. It shows you the value of supervision.”
“I see,” the spy said, his eyes still glittering, craftily. “But Lester Leith won’t believe that story unless I tell him that I bitterly resented your attempt to bribe me.”
“Well, go ahead and resent it,” Sergeant Ackley said.
“But how can I resent it?”
“You can shout at me, abuse me in a loud tone of voice.”
“No,” Beaver said, “this closet is virtually soundproof.”
“Well, think of something,” Sergeant Ackley said impatiently.
“I could push you up against the wall,” Beaver said, “and he could hear that. Then I’d have to hit you.”
Sergeant Ackley seemed dubious. “I don’t think we need to carry things that far, Beaver. We can scuffle around a bit and—”
“No. That will never do,” Beaver said. “We have to put this thing on right, or not at all. I won’t stay here unless we can do it convincingly.”
“Oh, all right,” Sergeant Ackley said. “Just to make it seem convincing, I’ll hit you first. You hit me easy, Beaver. You’re a big man. You don’t know your own strength. Come on; let’s get started. Now remember, Beaver, after things quiet down, I want you to get him started on the affair of the drugged guard.”
“What’s that?” Beaver asked. “I hadn’t heard of it.”
“Well, you will hear of it. We’ll give you all the dope. It happened last night. Karl Bon-neguard was collecting funds for a political cult movement in this country. We don’t know how far it had gone. But he’d collected quite a bit of money. There was a grand jury investigation in the offing, so Bonneguard drew all the money out of the bank and—”
“I get you,” Beaver said. “What happened?”
“Somebody drugged the guard, and burgled the safe. We can’t find out how the guard got doped. It’s a mix-up that simply doesn’t make sense.”
“You don’t think the guard framed it and copped the dough?”
“No. The guard’s O.K. He warned Bonneguard soon as he felt drowsy. I’ll have to tell you about it later, Beaver. We haven’t time to discuss it now. We’ll go ahead with the act. We’ll open the door. You’ll be indignant.”
“O.K.,” Beaver said, “let’s go.”
They raised their voices in loud and angry altercation. Beaver flung open the closet door and said:
“I think it’s the most contemptible thing I ever heard of.”
“Go ahead and be a dumb cluck, then,” Sergeant Ackley roared. “You keep playing around with this crook and you’ll wind up behind the bars. You’re a crook yourself!”
“Liar!” Beaver shouted.
Sergeant Ackley lunged a terrific swing at Beaver’s jaw.
The undercover man, moving with the swift dexterity of a trained boxer, stepped inside of the blow. For a fraction of a second, he set himself. A look of supreme enjoyment became apparent on his face. He moved his right in a short, pivoting jab which caught Sergeant Ackley on the point of the jaw.
Ackley’s head snapped back. The force of the punch lifted him from the floor, slammed him back into the arms of the two detectives.
One of the detectives reached for his blackjack. The other dragged out a gun. Beaver whirled to face them, so that his back was to Lester Leith. He gave a series of warning winks and said:
“I call on you to witness that he struck me first, after accusing me of being a crook. Do you know what he wanted? He wanted to bribe me to stay on in this job and act as spy. I told him what I thought of him. I told him Mr. Leith was the best man I ever worke
d for.”
He took a deep breath and turned to Lester Leith. “I’m very sorry, sir,” he said, “for losing my temper. But Sergeant Ackley took me into custody, very much against my will, earlier in the evening. Disregarding my demands that I be taken before a magistrate, he dragged me aboard that train and forced me to accompany him. I didn’t dare disobey him. However, when he made this infamous proposal to me, I felt that I was well within my rights as a citizen in couching my refusal in no uncertain language and in defending myself against attack. I trust I haven’t done wrong, sir.”
The police officers stared in amazement at the spy. Lester Leith regarded the limp form of Sergeant Ackley with eyes that were half closed in thoughtful concentration. At length he said:
“No, Beaver, you’ve done exactly what I should have done under similar circumstances. I distinctly saw Sergeant Ackley make an unprovoked assault upon you.”
Turning to the two officers, Beaver said: “And I call on you two gentlemen to be witness to what has happened. I demand that you take Sergeant Ackley out of here. I think, when he recovers consciousness, he will be the first to tell you that I have done exactly what the situation called for.”
One of the detectives returned the spy’s wink. “O.K., Beaver,” he said, “you win. Come on, Al. Give me a hand and we’ll drag the sarge out of here before there’s any more trouble.”
When the door had closed behind them, Beaver said to Lester Leith: “Disloyalty, sir, is one of my pet abominations. I detest one who is disloyal. I couldn’t restrain myself.”
“I don’t blame you in the least,” Lester Leith said. “I’m surprised that Sergeant Ackley had the temerity to arrest you and drag you aboard that train.”
“So am I, sir,” the spy said. And then, with a look of cunning in his eyes, added: “Incidentally, sir, while I was with them in the drawing room, I heard them discussing a crime which was committed no later than last night; a crime involving a drugged guard—”
Lester Leith held up his hand, palm outward. “Not now, Scuttle,” he said. “I don’t want to hear it.”
The spy said, “Perhaps tomorrow, when you’re feeling rested—”
“No, not tomorrow, Scuttle.”
The spy did not press the point. “Very well, sir,” he said.
“By the way, Scuttle,” Leith commented, “I think I’d like a brandy, and you’d better join me. I derived a great deal of satisfaction from the way you hung that punch on Sergeant Ackley’s jaw.”
About Kid Deth
Raoul Whitfield
THE PULP COMMUNITY was not a huge one. The editors knew each other, and they knew the writers. The writers, too, knew each other, and their common meeting place was often a bar. While the two greatest writers for the pulps, Raymond Chandler and Dashiell Hammett, are believed to have met only once, Hammett became very close to one of the other giants of the era, Raoul Whitfield. There seems to be a good deal of evidence that Hammett became even closer to Whitfield’s wife, Prudence, but that’s another story.
Whitfield was prolific and quickly became one of Black Mask’s best and most popular writers, both under his own name and as Ramon Decolta, as whom he wrote numerous stories about the Filipino detective Jo Gar. His career was cut short when he became ill in 1935; he never fully recovered and died ten years later at the age of forty-seven.
Joey (Kid) Deth was an unusual protagonist for the pulps, whose readers didn’t mind criminals as central characters just so long as they stole only from the rich. Few aristocrats read pulp magazines, so editors encouraged Robin Hood stories without fear of offending their readers. While Deth admits he’s a crook, he salvages himself to some degree by swearing (and, apparently, truly) that he never shot anyone. That is left to the thugs who are chasing him.
“About Kid Deth” was first published in the February 1931 issue of Black Mask. This is the first time it has been published in book form.
About Kid Deth
Raoul Whitfield
A crook caught between two gangs maneuvers the guns of Blind Justice
1
he Kid passed the coupe twice, on the far side of the street, before he crossed back of it, got close to the figure slumped forward over the wheel. The driver’s arms were crossed loosely over the rim of black; his hat was half off his head. His face was turned sideways—there was red color staining the lips. The eyes were opened and staring in the faint light from the instrument board. The engine of the car made faint vibration.
The street was fairly deserted—the snow had turned to slush and it was raining a little. A few squares to the northward there was a power house, along the East River. Greenish lights gleamed from high windows. The Kid turned away from the dead man and walked towards the river. He was smiling twistedly. He was small in size with round, dead-gray eyes. He wore a tight-fitting coat that was short, and a dark hat pulled low over his forehead. He smoked a cigarette and coughed sharply at intervals.
He didn’t see Rands until the detective came down the few steps of the lunch-wagon that was located about fifty yards from the wooden dock used by the dump carts. When he did see him Rands was lightning a cigar and watching him approach, his eyes leveled above the flare of the match in his cupped hands.
Kid Deth changed his smile to a grin and stopped a few feet from the detective. Rands was a big man with broad shoulders that were slightly rounded. His face was red and squarish. He shook the match, tossed it into the slush. He said in a cheerful voice:
“Hello, Deth—back in town, eh?”
The Kid pulled on what was left of his cigarette and widened his dead-gray eyes.
“Haven’t been away, Lou,” he said in a voice that sounded strangely heavy for one of his slight build.
Rands whistled a few notes of a popular theme song and looked with faint amusement towards the tail-light of the coupe.
“No?” he said finally. “Been sick?”
Joey Deth shook his head. “Feelin’ swell,” he replied. “How you been, Lou?”
The detective grinned. “Nice,” he replied. “I’ve been looking for you, Kid.”
Joey Deth nodded. “Sure,” he said. “A guy got dead out in Frisco, maybe?”
Rands grinned. It was a hard grin. He looked serious.
“Maybe,” he agreed. “But I don’t figure you got that far away from New York, Kid.”
Joey Deth narrowed his eyes and shrugged. The big detective kept looking towards the tail-light of the coupe, but he didn’t seem to be thinking about the car. There was something about that that struck Deth as being funny. But he didn’t show it.
“My mother’s sick,” he said slowly. “I been sticking close to the flat.”
Lou Rands nodded his head and looked sad. “The weather’s been bad,” he said. “She got the flu?”
The Kid nodded. A river boat whistle reached the two of them from some water spot in the distance. There was just a fine mist of rain falling. Inside the lunch-wagon old Andy was clattering dishes around. Rands said slowly:
“Guess you’d better come down to Headquarters with me, Kid. I’ve been looking for you.”
Joey Deth frowned. “I’ve got a date at one,” he said. “How about tomorrow?”
The detective grinned. “Stick your hands up a little,” he said quietly.
The Kid swore. He raised his hands and Rands stepped close to him. He patted the pockets of the tight-fitting coat, unbuttoned it, patted other pockets. Then he stepped away from the Kid and nodded his head.
“Sorry,” he said.
Joey Deth lowered his hands and swore. “Sorry—you didn’t find a rod,” he breathed. “Sure.”
The detective shrugged his shoulders. He looked towards the rear end of the coupe again, and stopped smiling.
“Before we grab the subway to Center Street—we’ll have a look at that car,” he said. “Not much parking done over this way.”
Kid Deth yawned, but his body shivered a little. Rands’ blue eyes were on him, smiling.
“B
etter be careful—wandering around at night,” he said. “You might get the flu, too.”
Joey Deth shrugged. “I’m thinkin’ about moving close to Headquarters,” he said with sarcasm. “Make things easier for you.”
Lou Rands looked towards the coupe and nodded. He didn’t smile.
“One of these days you’ll walk in—and you won’t walk out, Kid,” he said quietly. “You get too close to dead people. You always have.”
Kid Deth swore. “It’s just happened that way,” he said. “You oughta know that—by this time. You oughta be sick of ridin’ me downtown.”
The detective chuckled. “I’m sick of a lot of things,” he said. “But I keep on doing them. All right—let’s move over near that car.”
Joey Deth looked inside the lunch-wagon. His lips twisted a little. Lou Rands wasn’t watching him, and he didn’t see the hate that flared in the Kid’s eyes—flared and died into a smile. They moved westward on Thirty-ninth Street, away from the East River, towards the coupé. Joey Deth tried to keep his voice steady.
“What’s the pull for—this time?” he asked sarcastically. “I never pack a rod, you know that. You’ve had me downtown a half dozen times— you never kept me there.”
The tone of Rands’ voice got suddenly hard. He got his right hand buried in the right pocket of his brown coat.
“I’m going to keep you there—this time, Joey,” he said.
The Kid jerked his head towards the detective. He’d never heard Rands talk like this before. The big dick was usually easy going, almost jocular. But now his voice was hard—and his eyes were hard. And his right-hand fingers were gripping a rod, Joey knew that.
He asked shakily: “What for?”