The Black Lizard Big Book of Pulps

by Otto Penzler

  Duke slumped in his seat, jerked his hat down until the brim rested on the bridge of his nose and lighted a cigarette. Intuitively he knew the answer, but when Dombey came back to the car five minutes later, he verified it.

  “Sam an’ Gus got it,” he grunted laconically. “Resistin’ arrest.”

  Duke felt a little sick. It came to him suddenly that he had not eaten since the day before. As though the veteran read his mind, Dombey suggested:

  “Let’s get a cup of coffee, kid.” Without waiting for a reply, he piloted the car around the first corner and drove until he came to a small, counter lunchroom.

  Coffee warmed him, stirred him out of his apathy. “I counted on Sam,” Duke mused glumly. “He was my one alibi. Now Egan’s got a fine setup; he cleans up the Washburn killing by fastening it onto Skuro and Nuene and then bumping them off. I’m the goat on the murder of Chris Foy.”

  “It’s bad,” Dombey admitted.

  “Bad, hell!” Duke retorted with a rueful grin. “It’s terrible. Now I see why Egan turned me loose; he wanted me to lead him to Skuro. With them out of the way, I’ll be next. They’ll try to knock me off for resisting arrest!”

  Dombey shook his head slowly. “Listen, Duke, nobody’ll knock you off while you’re with

  “Thanks, Skipper, but you can’t be with me always.”

  “That’s what I was thinkin’, Duke,” Dombey said quietly. “The safest place for you right now is in jail as my prisoner. Why not let me book you on suspicion, then take over the case an’ have my boys prove you didn’t do it.”

  Duke laughed without pleasantry. “Skuro and Nuene tried to let some one prove them innocent, Skipper. They got a free ride in the official meat-wagon. No, I’ll go it alone for—” He stopped as the waiter paused in front of him.

  “Say, mister,” said the waiter, “you’re wanted on the phone.”

  Duke frowned. “You must have made a mistake. No one knows I am here. What name did they ask for?”

  The waiter shrugged. “It’s a dame. She didn’t ask for you by name. She said there was a tall, good-looking young guy sittin’ in here with a cop.”

  Dombey sniffed. “G’wan, Duke, that must be for you.”

  Martindel rose, walked to the rear of the lunchroom and picked up the receiver that dangled from a wall phone. Clapping it to his ear, he growled: “Hello?”

  “It’s your shyster mouthpiece,” came the familiar voice of his wife. “I just thought you might be interested to know that two men have been following you.”

  Duke started. “Where are you, Phyl?”

  “Across the street, in a drug store, you idiot. Knowing you need a wet nurse, I followed you after you left the hotel. This pair picked you up when you met Captain Dombey.”

  “Cops!”

  “I don’t think so, darling. They are young and sleek-looking. One—the tall one—walks with a limp in his left leg. The other is squat and tubby. He seems to walk on his heels.”

  “Where are they now?”

  “Sitting in a green sedan halfway down the block. Now, you fool, will you go to Europe with me?”

  Duke grinned wryly. “Can’t just now, darling, I’ve got a business engagement, but will you please go home and quit playing detective!”

  “Who is your engagement with, Mr. Mar-tindel?”

  “Two mugs in a green sedan, Mrs. Martin-del,” said Duke, as he pronged the receiver.

  Duke’s first impulse was to repeat to Dombey what Phyllis had told him, but by the time he reached his stool, he changed his mind. The copper gave him a quizzical, sidelong glance.

  “Someone you know?” he inquired.

  Duke shrugged. “A dame who saw us enter. She tried to date me up. Called from the drug store across the street.”

  “That’s the hell of bein’ good-lookin’,” grunted Dombey, then changed the subject by asking: “Well, what did you decide to do?”

  Duke lighted a cigarette before answering, finally gave his decision. “I’m not going to risk my life in a courtroom, Skipper; I’ll take my chances outside where I can do my own fighting. As it stands right now, I’m framed for a bank job and a murder, neither of which I committed. I know that Sam Skuro and Gus Nuene didn’t kill Washburn. They’re a pair of crooks, I’ll admit, and they’re better off dead, perhaps, but they did not murder Washburn.”

  “All of which doesn’t help you,” Dombey put in drily.

  “Admittedly, but it does explain things. For instance, I committed a crime—compounded a felony when I sought to square that bank job by returning the money. Even a regular city cop has to break the law many times in order to get around some legal red tape in settling a more serious offense, but when a private dick gets tripped up, he’s in a jam.”

  “You haven’t any evidence as to who did kill Washburn,” Dombey pointed out.

  Duke shook his head. “Not yet.”

  “That ‘yet’ is the trouble,” Dombey grunted. “If your hypothesis is correct, if the reason they released you was so you would lead ‘em to Skuro and Nuene, then you’ve served your purpose an’ your number is up about now. You won’t have a chance even to get started, Duke. No, you better come in with me.”

  Martindel grinned, but shook his head. “By the way, Skipper, do you know a couple of mugs, one tall—that walks with a limp in his left leg, the other short, squat and gives the impression of walking on his heels?”

  Dombey frowned, massaged his forehead with gnarled fingers. “Sounds like Louis Nagel an’ Tubby Arnison. Nagel’s a tall flashy-lookin’ wop from St. Louis. Arnison used to be a stoolie for Egan before he graduated into the money rackets.”

  “Arnison still stool?”

  Dombey snorted. “You tell me, kid.”

  “Guns?”

  “Yeah—Nagel anyhow. Tubby’s just a dirty little rat that started out snatchin’ purses.”

  Duke pushed to his feet, jockeyed a coin down the counter and faced the copper. “Thanks, Skipper. My appreciation and all that. I’ll be seeing you.”

  The old man shoved erect. “Wait a minute, kid, I’ll tag along awhile.”

  Duke gave his head a decisive shake. “Thanks, but I’d prefer to go it alone. There’s a lot of angles to this and there’s no use of you risking your pension on a losing bet. You can do me one favor, though—if the breaks go against me, keep an eye on Phyl.”

  Dombey grunted. “I’ll marry her myself the day she’s a widder.” He gave the younger man a friendly punch on the chest. “You’re just a headstrong damn fool, Duke.”

  Martindel grinned, swung around and, leaving Dombey staring after him, barged outside. He cast a quick glance across the street, but could see no sign of Phyllis. A whimsical smile twitched the corner of his mouth, then he let his gaze wander casually down the block. The green sedan was parked within a hundred yards of where he stood. His smile vanished. His hand brushed against the hard lump in his pocket where the gun reposed and he felt the impulse to run amuck. He felt stifled, as though a great unseen web were slowly tightening around him. The sacrificial goat! But why? What was back of it all? Why were these mugs tailing him? How did they know where to pick him up? No one knew that but Dombey and himself. For a brief moment he felt the urge to charge the green sedan and gun out the pair, but almost immediately reason prevailed. That would be suicide and get him no place, except, perhaps, the morgue.

  A cruising cab offered a chance to meditate. The driver caught his signal and a moment later he was comfortably ensconced in the tonneau. Up until the moment that the driver asked him where he wanted to go, Duke had been undecided, but when the question was suddenly propounded, he gave directions for reaching a small cottage in the mountains just back of the city. As the driver turned back to his task of piloting the swaying cab, Duke risked a hasty glance out the rear window. The green sedan had swung in line behind.

  He had no plan. The tiny cottage suggested itself because of its isolation; he wanted to get these two hoods alone someplace where he was not likely
to be disturbed. It was situated on the edge of a small lake; Duke and Phyllis had spent their honeymoon there.

  He wanted first to know why these men were tailing him and who sent them. He fished a cigarette out of his pocket and tapped it muse-fully against the window. Abruptly the possible answer came to him: Egan! Egan had released him on a writ when he might well have been held; Egan had sent his flat-feet to follow him, and now two hoods magically appear on his tail. That was too coincidental especially since one of the pair was a stoolie of Egan’s. There was only one possible explanation—Egan, knowing that Duke was friendly with Dombey and often called when he was in trouble, had tapped the wires on all the Skipper’s calls. That would explain the appearance of the two mugs at the rendezvous.

  A grim, cynical smile twisted the corner of Martindel’s mouth. He could use more direct methods in dealing with two known criminals than with the police. His fingers slipped into his coat pocket and massaged the checkered butt of the gun Dombey had given him. Perhaps Tubby Arnison could be induced to wag his tongue.

  The cab suddenly swung into a clearing and stopped before the little cottage. Duke stepped out and handed the driver a bill.

  “Want I should wait, mister?” asked the man at the wheel.

  Martindel grinned, shook his head. “No. I’m expecting friends.” He waved the cab away and mounted the steps to the wide veranda that encircled three sides of the little cabin. He opened the front door, walked swiftly through the dust-covered living room and let himself out a rear door. A short run brought him to the fringe of trees that formed a hedge around the cottage. He took out his gun and padded in a great arc until he came to a spot where he commanded a view of the front of the cabin.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  DUKE MAKES A KILLING

  The cab was gone. For a few moments he could see no sign of human life, then his sharp eyes picked up the outline of a man standing in the shadow of a tall tree. Even as Duke watched him, a second man—a short, fat fellow—eased out of the brush and joined his taller companion.

  They held a whispered consultation, but their words did not reach the detective. However, their meaning was obvious, for both drew guns, examined them briefly and slipped them into convenient pockets.

  Duke sized them up. The tall one—Nagel, if Dombey was correct—was swarthy, and vicious-looking. His close-set eyes, thin mouth and the way he carried his head low, like a bull, suggested that he would be a tough nut to crack. His squat companion, on the contrary, had a moon-face that looked soft and flabby. He had eyes that could easily cradle fear. Coupled with a killer of Nagel’s type, Tubby Arnison might conceivably commit murder, but if left to his own devices, Duke surmised that he would slide into rackets that carried with them a lesser chance of physical liability.

  Nagel suddenly stepped into the clearing and approached the cottage; Arnison drew his gun, braced it against the tree and covered the veranda.

  Duke’s teeth bared in a cold smile. So that was it? Nagel was going to lure him out while Arnison shot him from ambush! He melted back into the trees and silently made his way to a spot directly back of the stubby little gunman. Then he eased forward—

  Tubby Arnison’s first indication of misfortune came when Duke pressed the cold muzzle of his revolver against his well-rolled neck.

  “Not a sound!” Martindel reached forward and removed the gun from the tremulous fingers. “Now call to your partner and tell him to come back here!” He increased the pressure of the gun on Arnison’s neck. “Any tricks, mug, and I’ll part your hair from the inside!”

  Arnison nodded, terror-stricken. He lifted his voice and jerked huskily, “Hey, Louis, come here a minute!”

  Nagel glanced back, hesitated and then started to retrace his steps. When he reached a point about halfway across the clearing, he suddenly jerked to a stop. Perhaps some animalistic instinct warned him of danger, for his hand suddenly streaked toward his pocket.

  Martindel saw it coming. He took a quick swing at Arnison’s head with one gun. As the squat hood toppled into the brush with a squeal of pain and terror, he jumped into the open.

  “Don’t try it, Nagel!” he warned.

  The St. Louis gunman flung a curse at him and brought his gun up shooting. Duke’s first shot was high. Before he got in a second, a slug from Nagel’s gun tore into his leg, turned him halfway around and dropped him on his hands and knees. He rolled over, braced one elbow on the ground and fired twice in quick succession.

  Nagel was dead before he hit the ground!

  Duke rolled over hastily, expecting trouble from Arnison, but the tubby little assassin was clinging groggily to a tree, trying to wipe the blood out of his eyes. Duke inched over to a sapling, pulled himself erect and tested his leg. It was numb now and refused to hold his weight.

  He dropped Arnison’s gun into his pocket, picked up his own, and turned the muzzle on the fat man. “Snap out of it, Tubby,” he rasped harshly. “Amble out there and grab hold of your boy friend. Drag him into the bushes here. We may be having company. Step lively.”

  Arnison wavered, wet his thick lips and looked at the gun. Duke let his thumb toy with the hammer. That decided the gunman. He mumbled something unintelligible and swayed across the clearing. He hesitated a long time before he could bring himself to touch his dead confederate, but at last he caught Nagel by the ankles and dragged him into the surrounding trees.

  “Now,” commanded Duke, “we’ll go into the house where we can have a nice, quiet chat. Get going, mug!”

  Arnison moved with surprising alacrity. Duke broke off a branch to serve as a walking cane and hobbled after him. It was painful work limping up the four steps to the veranda for he had to keep his eyes fastened on the waddling bulk of his prisoner. But at last he made it and, pushing into the cottage for the second time since his arrival, dropped into a chair near the door. He let his eyes settle musefully on the other’s flabby features.

  Arnison stood with his back to a small table in the center of the room. He was a man close to forty with watery eyes that shifted constantly. His red, bulbous nose was criss-crossed with little purple veins and his puffy cheeks seemed to drag down the skin under his eyes like a St. Bernard’s. Periodically he opened his mouth as if to speak, but no words came.

  It was Martindel that broke the stillness.

  “Arnison, I’m not going to fool with you. I’m going to ask you some questions and I want smart answers. First, who sent you after me to make this kill?”

  The prisoner wagged his head. “We weren’t goin’ to bop you, fella. You got us all wrong. This was just a heist, see! We saw you pass down the state highway an’ tailed you—”

  The roar of Martindel’s gun drowned his words. He gave a shrill bleat of terror, clawed at the fleshy part of his leg and toppled on his face.

  Duke’s voice was chilled. “That didn’t hurt you much, Arnison, but it’s a sample of what you can expect if you keep on with those lies. Now I happen to know you picked up my trail down in the city about the time I met Captain Dombey. Who sent you after me, Arnison?”

  The hood sobbed, dragged himself to his hands and knees and crawled toward the detective like a cur dog. “S’help me, I don’t know,” he whined. “Nagel got the orders from somebody, but I don’t know who. Nagel’s dead now an’—”

  Duke leaned forward. He cupped the gun in the palm of his hand and struck the hood across the side of the head. Arnison yelped and fell on his face, grovelling.

  Martindel straightened. “I know different, Tubby. Talk, or I’ll shred you to ribbons. I’ve no compunction about killing you; none whatever. For the last time—who sent you two guns after me?”

  Arnison slowly lifted his head and stared at Duke through a veil of blood. “I can’t, s’help me! He’d kill me—”

  Duke raised his gun to the level with the other’s battered countenance. “O.K., Tubby, if you’d rather have it now.” He thumbed back the hammer.

  Arnison hesitated until he heard the second click of the
gun, then terror seized him. “Wait!” he bleated. “I’ll talk!” His head fell forward into his arms and he sobbed out the name so huskily that Martindel had to lean forward to catch it.

  “Egan—”

  Duke’s mouth contracted. “Why?” he rasped.

  “He wanted you dead for the bank job!” choked Arnison.

  Duke grunted, leaned back and contemplated the man on the floor. So his guess was correct—Egan had made a deal with these two rats to remove him. His scowl deepened. What good was this information? If he returned Arnison to the city, the stool-pigeon would deny his accusation the moment he was under the protection of the police. Even if he didn’t, it would be the word of a known criminal against a police official; Duke knew he could not get to court with anything as slim as that.

  Duke pulled himself erect, hobbled across the room and picked up a telephone. He pulled it as far as the cord would allow, then placed it on the floor.

  “Tubby,” he commanded grimly. “I want you to make a call, a very important call.”

  Arnison lifted his head and stared. The detective canted his head toward the instrument. “Crawl over to it, Tubby. Call Inspector Egan, tell him Nagel shot me, but that he got it as well. Suggest that you found something of vital importance and ask him to come out here. The idea is, Tubby, that unless Egan comes to this cottage, you’re going out the hard way.”

  Arnison choked. “You want me to lure Egan here? My God, guy, you don’t know what you’re askin’!”

  Duke squinted along the barrel of his gun. “Have you ever seen what happens when they take you to the morgue, Tubby? How they rip you open down the middle, stick a water-hose into you to wash out your insides? If I shoot you in the head, for instance, they’ll cut off your skull to see where the bullet went. They’ll—”

  “Cut it!” screamed the gunman. “Cut it, I tell you!”

  “There’s the phone, Tubby,” Duke suggested drily.

  Arnison inched toward the instrument on his stomach. His tremulous fingers fumbled with the receiver as he sought to remove it.